


SKYDUST III

by hellhoundsprey



Series: skydust!verse [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: 'verse' is short for 'versatile' which means the character both bottoms AND tops in this fic, Abandonment Issues, Age Difference, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Alternate Universe - Space, Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Amputation, Barebacking, Bottom Sam Winchester, Castration, Codependency, Consensual Underage Sex, Daddy Issues, Depression, Frottage, Injury Recovery, Jealousy, Multi, Mutual Pining, Penectomy, Physical Disability, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Public Sex, Recreational Drug Use, Rehabilitation, Sexual Assault, Sibling Incest, Somnophilia, Suicidal Thoughts, Top Castiel (Supernatural), Tortured Dean Winchester, Trans Character, Trauma, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Verse Dean, Witch Sam Winchester, absent father, in fact all the issues, trans benny lafitte
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:46:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 61,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23464150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey
Summary: In a galaxy far far away, a child is born to his parents Mary Campbell and John Winchester.
Relationships: Benny Lafitte/Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Series: skydust!verse [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1633717
Comments: 21
Kudos: 32





	1. BIRTH

**Author's Note:**

> Some notes regarding the tags before we begin:
> 
> \- **verse Dean** means that Dean partakes in both bottom **and** top energies. he's super fluid in this one so if you're hardcore one or the other, this isn't for you.  
> \- **sexual assault** against Dean in 3 scenes in all chapters in total: non-consensual groping, touching and kissing. ( _this is a tally which will be kept updated as I write_ )  
> \- **underage** since Sam is 12 for the first beginnings of sexual exploration with Dean and 16 by the time things get hot and heavy including penetration with Cas.
> 
> If you thought you’d get through this verse without some good ol’ incest: this is me, crushing your dreams.

Dean’s little brother has yet to spend one single day not being difficult.

He’s just a lot. Not necessarily negative, but, just…a lot.

Even Dad, who isn’t at home most of the time, knows that. But Dad has that perfect sense for other people, reads them as easy as pie. There’s always been such a palpably _different_ way he’d be with Sam, in stark contrast to how he’d be with Dean.

Not necessarily negative, one way or the other. Just—different.

On darker days, Dean sees a higher shade of respect in Dad’s voice. Would be painfully aware of the ease of how Dad would bend and bow and sighingly accept that whatever Sam would ask for, Sam would get.

Sam would berate him, encourage him on to ‘just ask, he’s not gonna say no’, but Sam and him never quite shared the same level of confidence.

Sam came into this world with an acute sense of ownership. Their mom’s murder barely managed to put a dent into that, even though with the years, Dean thinks he begins to notice—regret? Grief? Jealousy?

Dean had four years with her. Sam got eight months.

There is a singular picture, and it’s Dean’s. Sam doesn’t ask for it, ever. Sometimes, it doesn’t quite sit the exact way Dean left it.

Sam never asks for big things. He’ll pick and prod and be smart, so godforsaken smart, and Dean has trouble understanding how, when, and why his blood brother turned out so vastly, entirely different.

Dean raised him. It shouldn’t work like that.

Sam speaks early, uselessly. Babbles and babbles and Dean understands every not-word, even when his own head gets too heavy and he nods off. Sam’s with him, always. Even in his dreams.

Especially in his dreams.

Sam doesn’t grow until he does. Smaller and lankier than his peers, always, and Dean didn’t have anyone to confide to—you don’t see a doctor unless it’s an emergency, Dean—and Sam was never, ever sick. Except when he was, he’d be on the very verge of death. Burning with fevers, comatose for days.

Dean swears that all it took was a handful of days. Of mere weeks, and suddenly, Sam wasn’t a child anymore. Wasn’t the same little toddler who let Dean so effortlessly potty-train him, but a growing boy, half a man.

Ten, eleven, twelve.

He’d fit in Dean’s arms. On Dean’s back. Would squeal and scream-laugh upon tickles, being thrown, tossed into the air. Would drool and cry and kick, and bite and flail and scratch. To this day, nobody can tell you with confidence whether it was a good idea to combat-train the little heathen. But Dean did that, too.

And, god, Sam has always been so quick to learn.

Will watch you with his big, shiny eyes, gold-fragments and every color there ever was, and he’d get it right on the second or third try. Never on the first, because his body always seemed to confuse him with its ever-evolving reach, size, height, width. Every morning he’d wake up in a different shape, it seemed. Would yawn and stretch and have grown new muscle, new skin, overnight, for the sole purpose of Dean burying his face, wrapping his arms around, putting his lazy mouth to.

The loneliness and fears aside, the lack of adult supervision grew on Dean. They’d sleep in until Sam announced that he was bored, bored as _hell_ , Dean, and he’d get up to grab a book and read. And another. And another.

Dean would drag himself out of bed eventually just to feed the two of them, because Sam doesn’t know ‘hunger’ until you spell it out for him (you didn’t eat all day, won’t you have something, anything?).

Sam inhales food with amounts of trust he’d only ever show Dean. Because he knew nobody but Dean, and Dad (and the shadow-y half-presence of some of Dad’s comrades, maybe). Dean never went to school, never had any friends, so why would Sam?

“And this little toe…”

Dean wriggles the tiny thing in question. His other thumb hold-presses that wiry foot, massages where there’s barely ever a shoe, a sock. Just skin, callouses, long-forgotten cuts.

“This little toe’s my favorite.”

Sam squeals and bangs his current book down on the top of Dean’s head, hard. Dean splutters around the toes in his mouth, feels the tiny bones shifting under the accidental pressure of his teeth, and he just holds on tighter, and curls his tongue into the soft, wriggly webbings of Sam’s foot.

Sam is screaming now. “NO, stop, STOP! DEAN!” and he’s fucking _cajoling_ at this point, kicks his powerful foal legs but Dean is stronger, always has been.

Sam cries a little, but doesn’t hit him again.

~

Dean reminds, “Don’t let go,” and Sam snarls his usual, “I’m old enough,” so Dean corrects him, as always, “No, you’re not.”

Sam’s hand is uncooperative, limp and twiggy in Dean’s grip. Dean pulls him along through the busy street. It’s easy to get comfortable, forget about risks and rules, Dean, you gotta be on the watch, always, do you understand?

His eyes scan nearby and far away. Read faces and his mouth is a set, strict line, and his body is slowly but surely filling out like Dad assured him it would, eventually.

Some boys just take longer s’all. You’re my son, the time will come. Promise.

Dean thinks he looks just menacing enough for people to look the other way, young enough for people to be sympathetic towards the pair of them, parent-less, anonymous.

They’ve been on this planet for almost two months now, and the marketeers remember their faces, their orders. That old lady waves, smiles, begins putting together the desired wares even before Dean can tell her, “Same as always.”

“Here you go, my dear,” she says as she hands the huge bundle over to Dean first, as always, and reaches for Sam next, who extends his arm. The tiny extra piece of fruit is dwarfed by the span of his palm.

Sam beams all polite, tells her, “Thank you,” and Dean is too tired to remind him that they talked about this, several times, every time.

So he just shoulders their purchase, pays. All one-handedly, while Sam stuffs the sticky food into his mouth.

“You grew again,” the lady chirps at Sam. Could be his grandma. “Didn’t you?”

Sam nods dutifully as he licks his fingers, speaks through the pulp yellowing his chin and tongue and teeth: “All the time.”

“Your mother must be so proud,” she says, half-towards Dean, and Dean tells her graciously, “That’ll be all, thank you.”

Dean yanks at that baby-arm when Sam takes a little too long, tries to turn and wave back at the woman and Sam _yelps_ at the pain, the _insolence_. Yanks Dean’s arm right back, so Dean squeezes that monkey-hand until those tiny bones crunch, and Sam’s little mouth pulls tight, hurt. But at least quiet, for fucking once.

Dad said three months, top. They’ll have to move again, then. Dean isn’t particularly fond of this place, this planet. It’s all dirty and crammed. Sam says he likes that there’s wild animals scurrying around everywhere, but those just add to Dean’s general uneasiness.

“A tw’Trck. A grnhla. A—”

“Shut up.”

“…a Quep-Zhuk, a—”

Another harsh yank. “I said shut it, Sam.”

The devil hanging from Dean’s hand glares at him with all the hate he could ever muster. Which, considering Dean’s the only thing he’s got, is significant.

Sam lectures, “Just because you’re dumb and don’t know anything doesn’t mean I have to be, too.”

Sam nearly walks into him, because Dean’s feet stay where they are as he hears that.

And Dean half-turns, and his mouth opens—for something, anything. He feels like he’s frowning, and maybe he is.

He stares down at his little brother, who stares up at him with equal surprise. Those eyes widen in rare fear.

A queer sight.

Dean feels wrong in his bones.

Wrenches himself forward, again, manages a flat, “Let’s go home,” and Sam’s voice doesn’t rise again.

It’s late noon. The market deflates, slowly. Cold begins to settle, barely noticeable with how it creeps up on you, until you can’t feel your toes.

Dean should get them shoes. Get some for Sam, at least; two sizes at once or maybe one pair that’s too big now and will be outgrown in maybe a month, if he’s lucky.

Only one more month. Dad will come. Will get them, take them away, somewhere else. Somewhere safer than before, better and nicer. Will stay with them for days on end while he’s on the lookout for a new job; maybe a week extra if he’s gotta nurse something back to health. Will hug them, Sam and him, and things will be better.

The afternoon is spent in silence. Storing the food, washing his feet, his hands. Dean checks on the windows, cleans the guns. Does their laundry, the dishes.

Sam admits, quietly, through the settling dusk, “I didn’t mean it.”

Dean’s on their futon, half-dozing with the only prospect of having dinner sometime, soon-ish, and beckons the kid closer. You can’t be angry with Sam, not much longer than it takes for him to break your heart with how genuinely guilty he looks.

Sam continues, “You’re not dumb,” and kicks his tiny feet, so Dean rolls his eyes and verbalizes, “C’mere, you little shit.”

Sam crawls under the blanket, worms his way into Dean’s bed-warmth, the span of his naked chest. Rubs his nose here, and Dean ruffles that angel-hair like a ‘there-there’.

Sam sniffles. Dean peels one eye somewhat open. “You cold?”

Sam insists, “No,” but lets Dean put his hand on his forehead nevertheless. Clings to Dean’s broadness like he really, actually was capable of keeping the two of them safe, always.

“Doesn’t feel like a fever.”

“I’m _fine_ , Dean.”

Dean smothers him in his arms. Holds him close, until they are one single heartbeat. Until he feels Sam’s eyes drifting close.

Only then, he allows relief to crawl upon himself.

~

Dad had infused Dean with all kinds of rules, and wisdoms, and fears. Because he couldn’t always be there, and Dean’s gotta be strong, and careful, and watch out because the world won’t forgive you if you take it for granted. Not even a single second.

Sam, on the other hand, grew up under Dean’s strict care. Could just be, not-think a lot of time Dean would need to go through lists upon lists, always mentally. It’s an open truth that he looks dumb, frozen like he sometimes is, because he has to remember whatever he cannot remember right away, or they might die.

Winchesters are acutely aware of any danger, at all times. If not embedded in their genes, it’s a skill well-earned.

But while Dean carefully plans, navigates them _around_ the offense, Sam, upon confronted with ‘new’ and ‘potentially unsafe’, will walk right up to it and inquire an explanation.

Dean’s body boils from the inside. No water will stay inside of him, and none of Dad’s first aid supplies will help. So Dean sits hunched over, in the dirt, while Sam stands next to him, as they wait for their turn at the local doctor’s practice.

They’ve been out here for hours now. Dean shivers with a fresh wave of fever.

He tries focusing. Is someone watching them?

But his head droops. His cheek finds the hard knobs of his knees. Just for a second…

The person behind them gently nudges at him and he startles awake, rips his neck erect, and Sam is gone.

In a matter of seconds, Dean feels gutted. Tells his legs to push him to a stand, reaches behind himself to find support on the wall, but his body is too emaciated, his head too spinny, and the scream is ready in his dried throat as his panicked eyes land on—

Sam.

Sammy.

Dean yells, “SAM?!” and the far-away creature startles, turns to look at him, and Dean’s nearly on his feet when he collapses, when his knees give and he chafes his shoulder on the slide down the wall; the stranger tries to grab him, help him, but Dean swats at them. “Don’t TOUCH me! SAM!? Sam—!”

Dean’s head lolls forward, chin to chest, and his eyes slip-slide without his consent, and he bites his tongue—hears naked feet running in the dirt and smells the ground, swears he feels the scrape of it on his face but he never quite makes it all the way down.

“I’m here. I’m here,” rushes Sam, quiet, or maybe Dean’s just delirious and can’t hear right. Those twig-arms push him up against the wall and Dean can’t lift his arms, can’t lift his head. A strong smell—pungent, heavy—curls all the way into his well-done brain, and his face scrunches in the sudden, violent need to dry-heave.

“She says to chew on this.”

Dean splutters around the dried leaves that force into his mouth. Tries to spit them out but there’s Sam’s fingers, too, and Sam’s other hand slaps over his mouth all flat and impenetrable.

Dean fights.

“Chew, you gotta— _chew_ , Dean, please, it will _help_ , please chew—!”

Dean chokes.

“I know, I know, I’m so sorry, please chew on this, I promise you’ll feel better, okay?—Yeah. Yes, just like that. See? I know, I’m so, so sorry. We’ll get you water, just a second. Deep breath in—”

Dean’s nostrils flare with his effort.

“—and out—”

There’s tears in Dean’s eyes, no spit in his mouth. His chest hurts with the deflation of his lungs.

“—and in—and out—and in…”

Dean comes to with Sam scraping the leftover leaves from his enlarged tongue. Blinks, through a layer of tears and slime, and his heart doesn’t…

race anymore.

Sam eyes him. Decides, with a tucked-safe smile, “Let’s get you home, yeah?”

His little brother carries most of Dean’s too-much weight, all the way home. They nearly lose the blanket, twice, and Dean can’t even be furious about Sam accepting help from whoever is kind enough to pick it up and hand it back, each time, without fail.

Back in their apartment, Sam helps him to bed. Hurries into the kitchen then. Dean blinks, clearer by the minute, over the sound of boiling water.

Sam returns with a generous cup of ‘soup’—smells vegetable-y until it hits Dean’s tongue and is just…bland. Dean drinks, bedded in Sam’s lap, and Sam keeps his head upright with the one and holds the cup to Dean’s mouth with the other hand.

Both Dean Winchester and his stomach are surprised by how he can breathe without vomiting everything back up straight away.

Almost forgot what that’s like.

“Sleep. It’s okay. I got the gun right here. I’ll watch out, okay? Just sleep, yeah?”

Dean’s face hurts. He hates that it does, and that Sam always seems to _know_ despite nobody ever teaching him anything.

He grumbles his displeasure with the general situation before he slips right into what will be twelve hours of undisturbed, heavenly sleep.

~

“You two still sleep like this?”

Dad’s confusion is painfully visible despite the sheer blackness.

“Aren’t you a little old for that, boys?”

The brothers stare back at him, frozen in their embarrassment. Sam only ever scoots away once Dean pushes at him.

Dean tries, “It gets hella cold,” and Dad half-mumbles some sort of agreement before he’s already out.

The three of them wake entangled, with Dean in the middle.

He startles, at first, because Dad is just so massive and foreign against his body. Smells like his ship, the strange food he brought back and which they feasted upon last night until they were full enough to burst.

Dad’s heart beats slow, heavy, steady. Dean puts his ear to it, to the incredible softness of that shirt, the sheer bulk of Dad’s chest. Dean’s legs are curled around Dad’s front like Sam’s are around Dean’s back.

Dean’s eyes are closed, and he makes a selfish, selfish wish.

~

“My little monkey!” Dad would say, laughing, tossing Sam around because he’s still a kid, still barely eighty pounds of skin and hair, and Sam would laugh back hysterically, lovingly, ask-scream too-loud, “Dad, what’s a ‘monkey’?”

Dean throws them a smirk, transfers plates from counter to table.

“Humans used to be monkeys,” explains Dad, wise and soft and Sam’s straddled in his lap now with his bare legs, and he won’t leave until Dad will peel him away. Dad takes a deep inhale with his moustache nearly dipping into his cup. He looks the best kind of tired, and Dean takes a seat with the widest of smiles.

“Back where we came from. We climbed the trees and swam the rivers. Covered in hair we were, head to toe.”

“Daddy, what’s a ‘tree’?”

“You know _trees_ , Sammy,” frowns Dad, but Sam’s too invested in the new amulet he’s peeled from the depth of Dad’s hairy neckline. Turns it between his always-searching fingers, and the mother in Dean has the faint urge to keep him from sticking it right into his mouth. “You saw _trees_ before, didn’t you? Fruit grows on trees. People build houses on trees. A treehouse. You’ve lived in one before!”

Without looking up, “Did I?”

Both Dean and Dad reply, “Yes, you did.”

And Sam looks up at that, at Dean first and at Dad second, and he laughs, carefree as anything.

Dean was born to live through these days, he is sure of it. These, and nothing else.

He can endure anything, as long as he gets _this_.

Sam’s always a little more Baby around Dad. Dean’s always a little more Mommy around Dad. Cleans up without being asked and just watches the two of them, detached from all worries. The neat line of Dad’s mustache. The wild mop of his thinning hair. The force in his enormous hands—could lift Dean just like he does with little Sammy, not break a sweat. Wouldn’t feel it, probably, at all.

But Dean’s all grown, and only babies cling to their daddy like Sam does. Sam’s slowly growing out of it too, by now, but Dean’s got a feeling he’ll push that limit, too, just like he always does.

“Any prospects?”

“Not yet,” muses Dad, deeply invested in his books. They pile mile-high, and he puts a generous, strong arm around Dean to pull him closer by the hips. A proud smile, and Dean smiles back, one hand on the table and the other on Dad’s bare shoulder.

Dad’s handwriting is meticulous. You have to squint to read, and even then, you’re guaranteed a headache. Dean’s eyes jump from line to line, scanning for ‘keys’—you never know how much time you’ve got, so look for the important information first.

“A whole shipload?”

Dad grins, “That’s right,” and sucks another lungful from his cigar.

The smoke shoots from Dad’s nostrils, curls around them, thick enough to cut. Dean’s eyes water a little, but he doesn’t mind.

Dean tells his dad, “Awesome,” and lets him squeeze him a little tighter without complaint.

~

“I HATE YOU!”

Dean stays nearby. There’s not much else to do when Sammy’s like this.

“I HATE YOU I HATE YOU I HATE YOU!”

Dad tries, tired, “Sam,” but all he gets is Sam animal-screeching, throwing more books his way. “Please stop that, those are important—”

“I DON’T _CARE_! They can all BURN for all I care!”

Two neatly-piled stacks don’t stand a chance against the momentum of a twelve-year-old’s swinging arms, and Dad’s patience has reached its end with it, and while it has Dean’s neck stiffening, it only pulls more rage out of his screaming sibling.

“DON’T TOUCH ME, I HATE YOU I HATE YOU, DON’T!”

Sam fights Dad teeth and nails, gets him in the face and doesn’t stop screeching for a single second.

Dad pins him to the floor, an arm’s length away. Has him twisted and immobile and it looks painful, and Sam’s crying honest tears now but he’s still cursing Dad out, still tries to buck, break free, inflict more damage.

Dad informs, “You’re only hurting yourself,” and Dean’s monster-brother wails, “I WILL KILL YOU! I WILL MURDER YOU AND I WON’T EVEN MISS YOU, NOT FOR A SINGLE SECOND I WON’T!”

It’s been too many years of this to remember what it was like, before.

When it would be only Dean and his sadness, and little Sammy too confused and scared to do anything but cry once Dad was, in fact, gone.

Of course, Sam doesn’t mean a single word of what he’s saying. All three of them know that. Yet, it doesn’t make it hurt less.

“We can stay here all night. ’M not supposed to fly out until tomorrow, sunrise,” hums Dad, firm and effortless where he kneels over his youngest son, and Dean’s arms are crossed so tight they hurt, and his tongue twists behind his clenched teeth, relentless.

Sam lets out what hopefully is a last, impressive howl. Something not-human, scary and deep and heartbreaking. No child should feel this way. Should be forced into a corner like this. And yet, this is their reality. The way Sam chooses, every single time.

Dean’s brother is reduced to a shaking, tiny animal. Covered in his own fury-spit and his tears, his watery snot and too-thin premature sweat. Dean watches with intent how Dad slowly, very slowly begins to shift his weight, let up on Sam—see if Sam will launch himself once more. But no sign of that. He’s spent, for this time.

Dad’s back on his feet and begins to pick up his belongings while Sam curls up like he did when he was just a little baby. When he’d cry and cry and cry, just like he does now, and there was nothing Dean could do to comfort him.

Dad carefully straightens the current pile of books before he bends down to get the rest of them.

~

Sam’s always a little firmer, a little less childish when they have the bed to themselves once more. When no dad interferes with their sleeping habits. When Dean can rub his hand over his little brother’s bloated, achy belly as much as he likes. As much as Sam needs it.

Sam hiccups noisy tears, fat and salty, and he nurses on odd herbs he brought back from only-god-knows-where. It’s a new habit Dean is not convinced he should enable, but as long as nothing backfires, he has decided that he’ll allow it. For now.

“That’s what you get for making Dad upset.”

Sam sighs, right under Dean’s warm palm. Makes his little ribs expand until they’re nearly splitting him open. He’s bare but for his underwear, just like Dean.

Sam demands, all snot and no warmth, “Sing something.”

“Sing?”

“Yeah. Something nice.”

“Hm,” hums Dean, so far, far away. Draws circles on that belly, around the protruding little nob of Sam’s navel. How tiny he used to be. “Something nice.”

He thinks of Mom. Her capable hands, the softness of her hair. The wordless tone of her voice; he can’t remember what she’d say. It’s been so long. Maybe one day, he’ll be just like Sam—without mother-thoughts, all bare and alone.

“Once, I held your hand / Held it close in mine / And as we walked, together / I forgot about all time / We walked through winds and rains / Your hair was fading grey / My skin turned into ashes / Our blood turned into wine / And as we walked on, dying / I looked at you and knew / My love, I knew for certain / That I was born for you.”

Sam criticizes, eventually, “That’s sad. Not nice.”

“Why, that’s the nicest song I know!” Dean claws his tickle-hand, and Sam chortles in instinct. “It’s about two people, being in love! What nicer things _are_ there, huh? You tell me, genius.”

Sam frowns, all focused. Contemplating. “Like the sun? And the sky? And food?”

Dean scoffs. “I don’t know any songs about those.”

“Then make one up! It’s not _hard_.”

Dean smirks, “Tough crowd,” and rakes his nails down the jut of Sammy’s hip bone, into the soft crease of his thigh.

Sam gasp-laughs and his leg twitches, and he orders, “Stop!” but bucks into the touch, turns closer to his brother, who tickles his fingertips up and down his thigh. “Sing,” Sam reminds, one hand still halfway in his mouth with the herbs while the other twines the cord of Dean’s necklace around his pointer finger. His leg falls open and barely-heavy against Dean’s stomach.

Dean laughs, dips his head low to scratch behind his ear. Scoots a little closer and the heel of Sam’s foot finds Dean’s thigh so he can angle his leg wider and better. So Dean can feather along the soft-soft inside of that leg.

“We sang to the sun / We sang all day, we did / So she wouldn’t leave us / To die!”

Sam laughs belly-honest on the dramatically low dip of Dean’s voice. Grabs at Dean’s face to squish his mouth to a pursed little thing.

“The sky was wide and empty / For when the moons arose / The sun would leave us hanging. / We begged her—please just stay / Another hour, please! / She wouldn’t hear our wishes / For she was wise and old / She would return tomorrow / So she wouldn’t leave us—”

“To DIE!”

“You got it.”

Sam laughs, again.

~

Sam hasn’t not-hated a place in…never, actually.

But Dad finally gave in to his pleading and put him in the local school. So, apparently, that’s all it takes.

Sam’s euphoria lasts for about one day, until he’s back home, throws his bag onto the table to a confused Dean, and announces, exasperated:

“Everyone in this shithole is _dumb as all hell_.”

Sam refuses to go back unless Dean finds him a better school. Which, frankly, Dean is not qualified for, and there’s no other school nearby anyway.

Dean begrudgingly calls on Sam’s teacher, who eyes him like he’s infested with something nasty, until they hear Sam’s name.

It only goes downhill from there.

“He’s _brilliant_ , if that’s what you wanna hear,” they spit, “he reads, he writes—perfectly! Ten languages! But he’s so, so— _useless_! He doesn’t listen! Never LISTENS! I cannot teach a child this crude, this bad-mouthed! However your parents raised you, I feel deeply sorry for you, because clearly, they FAILED!”

Dean tells them, “Uh, sorry,” and leaves the establishment even faster than his brother.

His head fumes—because the teacher was right. Everything about what they said, as rude as it might have been—all true. Hell, if anyone knows just how insufferable Sam can be if you play it by ear, it’s him. And he’s _fed_ the kid.

Dean roams the new, unknown streets. They’re the same as they always are, just miniscule changes like: the ground is different here, the air is different, the ratio of humans to non-humans. He meets the eye of someone remarkably humanoid, until he looks closer and his brain fires the fuck _off_ at the length of their neck.

The person begins to tail him, and Dean ducks his head a little lower, makes himself as invisible as he can with his shoulder this broad, his hair this bright despite all the dirt and grime.

He runs into a dead-end and into the stranger, just as he turns on his heels to run back, and there’s two pairs of arms, no, three—heaving him into the air, pinning him up against the wall in his back.

Dean chokes, grabs for the knife in his boot, but they’re faster. The weapon falls to the ground with a sad, dull chink.

That neck extends further, until they’re eye-to-eye.

“Your brother,” they say, quietly, with many voices at once.

One of their hands slap over Dean’s mouth in wise foresight.

“He is special, Dean Winchester. Bring him to this place—”

One hand stuffs something into the pocket of Dean’s pants.

“—and We shall teach him.” On an afterthought: “Free of charge.”

“Or,” Dean splutters, as soon as the hand leaves him free to do so, “I kill you, right now.”

“I admire your bravery. But it is ill-placed.”

Dean hits the ground ass-first, scrambles to his knife immediately.

He thinks he hears an unnerved sigh before he freezes. Can’t even move his eyes.

“If We would have wanted to hurt you or your brother, We would have done so already. Now,” they say, as they turn to leave, “bring him to Us. He will not regret it.” Their robe flows over the ground, in Dean’s peripheral—or, is it? “Tell him We saw his work, and We were impressed. Oh, and, Dean Winchester?”

He would throw them a glare, or a knife, or both. If only he could.

“Don’t come after Us. Or search for Us. It is of no use and utterly frustrating. For this will be the last time you and Us spoke. Farewell.”

Dean listens to their steps receding. His body surges forward in embarrassing delay long after he can’t hear them anymore.

He bolts out into the street—only to be faced with faceless strangers, and none of them his attacker.

He’s out of breath.

~

Unfortunately, Dean realizes only when Sam’s eyes have already widened to the size of dinner plates, that this was…

a mistake.

Sam seems puzzled at first as well, frowns, thinks. “My…work…?” but then he shoots ahead of Dean’s knowledge and bursts, “Oh! _Oh_!”

Dean’s kid brother jumps to his feet. Begins pacing the room like some crazy old hag while all Dean can do is watch, be confused and left out.

Within minutes, Sam goes through every shade of emotion. Interrupts himself as soon as he speaks, tears at his unruly hair. Flips books open, tosses them away.

“Are…are you okay?”

“I’m, I.” Sam’s expression goes from confused to happy to devastated to excited. “I—I don’t know!”

“So, they’re like. Wizards.”

“Yeah!”

“Wizards and witches.”

“Yeah, isn’t that amazing?!”

“More like, uhm—a huge scam? Listen,” but Sam obviously doesn’t, because he’s tearing into his books again; has become worse and worse with that, tears papers out to pin them to walls or paste them somewhere else, and Dean hadn’t realized how much junk Sam’s dragged back home, “listen, Sam—I have a bad feeling about this.”

Unimpressed, distracted, “Yeah? Why?”

Dean balks, blinks. Fastens himself again, begins, “Well, first of all—”

“It’s okay that you’re jealous, but try being less of a fucking douche about it, okay?”

Dean’s words die in his throat. His pointer finger remains raised.

Sam throws him the prissiest of looks. Slaps his current book closed, and Dean hadn’t even realized Sam started packing a fucking _bag_. “I’ll go, whether you like it or not.”

Dean still hasn’t called Dad.

The courage to do it wanes with every passing minute.

Sam and Dean walk side by side. Sam refuses to let Dean hold his hand.

Dean’s voice feels tight. Breathless. Scared. “Are you really sure about this?”

Sam informs him, “Yup,” and comes to a sudden halt in front of a forked street.

Dean’s little brother, just twelve years old, turns to him to tell him, “I gotta go on my own from here on. You cannot come with.”

He’s a baby. Your baby brother. You’re supposed to watch out for him.

Everything in Dean quakes—with panic, loss, love.

He can’t move.

“I will be fine,” consoles Sam, and the bag on his shoulder looks too heavy. Too much for such a tiny human. “I will be back tonight. Y’don’t have to wait with dinner, just leave some for me.”

When did Sam grow up like this? When did he decide that he had the authority to make this kind of decision?

“Tell them,” Dean says, “tell them that if they hurt you—that I will find them. I’ll hunt them down.”

“Sure.”

“Promise me, Sam.”

Sam throws him a more honest look. A silent ‘I got you’. Dean’s chest only pulls tighter with it.

Sam tells him, “Promise,” and Dean watches him heading off, away from him.

Every step seems like miles and miles. Feels like getting torn, bit by bit, and Dean is left behind, at the fork.

Sam disappears in the masses of people.

~

Sam’s eyes are big. Bigger than the moon.

“You didn’t tell him yet.”

Sam’s fingers are spider-leg long. Grab at Dean’s face like it doesn’t know how to hurt, like it doesn’t mind. Sam’s thumbs rub into the corners of Dean’s mouth.

Dean blinks tired, rasps, “No,” sleep-heavy.

“Why? Because you’re scared he’ll scream at you?”

Dean lies, “Nah,” and pulls the warm little thing closer. Sam’s still in all his clothes, awake like a new dawn despite it being the middle of the goddamn night. Dean didn’t even hear him coming home. “Just don’t wanna upset him. ’Cause you’re gonna go anyway. Won’t you? No matter how mad he gets.”

Sam, who’s spent more time with the witches than with Dean for the last couple of days, confirms, “Yeah,” and a mad little smile creeps onto that sharpening mouth.

Dean hums, “Did you eat?” and Sam breathes right into his face, giggles at the upset face Dean makes. Onions and grag-zul.

Dean rolls over with a deep groan, buries the shrieking child underneath himself.

Grins, “Who raised you to be this nasty, huh?” and Sam lets him pin his snap-able wrists next to his head, lets Dean nose into and behind his ear. Laughs, wholeheartedly, because it tickles, because it feels so nice.

Sam’s body bucks and fights Dean’s weight. Those legs kick and squirm, try a lock, fail, remain clasped around Dean’s ass. Sam is left breath-y, smiling, sighing.

Dean murmurs, “Fucking nasty, Sammy,” and rubs the two of them together just-so. Brushes his lips down that dirty neck, into the neckline of that too-big shirt. “They put up with a nasty boy like you, huh?”

“’M not nasty.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m not nasty,” repeats Sam, weakly, a little squirmier again now, and Dean can feel why.

Dean prompts, “Go brush your teeth, alright?” and closes his eyes. Breathes in all that dirt, all that skin. His cock ruts fat and bare into the firm knob that is Sam’s hip bone. “Or they’ll fall out.”

Sam argues, “They won’t,” and wraps his arms around Dean’s neck once his hands are let free. Buries his heated little face into Dean’s stubbly hair. Dean feels him huffing and puffing, instinct-humping back at him.

Just another minute.

~

Dean doesn’t inquire about what exactly it is those people teach Sam. Partly because it’s a certainty Sam won’t tell the truth, partly because Dean is too scared that Sam _might_ tell the truth.

All he knows is that Sam leaves early and returns late. That he smells like the weirdest shit all the time now—Dean’s savvy with quite some herbs and meds, more than your typical housewife would, considering how many galaxies they’ve travelled. Dad’s always been somewhat superstitious and somewhat leaning towards herbs, sure. But Dean’s always accounted for the bounty hunter posse influence, the ‘this is more affordable compared to an actual doctor’.

But, this?

Dean doesn’t know how to deal with any of it.

With Sam being gone the majority of the day, Dean’s chores are reduced to a minimum. He saw that one coming, kinda, given the fact that Dad _had_ indeed allowed Sam to go to school. Technically, this _is_ Sam, going to school.

(Recently, Dean Winchester’s brain has become eager to supply reasons for why things are ‘okay’. It’s a new trend and, honestly, way more comfortable than the constant pressure and anxiety he grew up on. He doesn’t trust it, of course, but…things _are_ okay, aren’t they?)

Dean scores a job at the market, his first one ever. He’s not half as bad. The pay is subpar but still better than nothing at all. Time passes quickly during work, during rushes, and he likes that the most. He gets to observe the locals, which is handy, too. Always good to know what you’re up against, son.

His sleep improves with this new kind of exhaustion. Of standing all day, talking more and _to_ more people than he ever did. Dean rises early, prepares breakfast while Sam is still asleep (starfish sprawl, snoring), slips out on the break of dawn. His steps are light. Life is looking good.

Sam either wants to show off or is genuinely too absorbed in his efforts to notice—how Dean’s mouth drops, and his eyes widen, because—

“What the fuck!”

Sam startles, and the zrte-Chke drops back into the fruit bowl.

“Did YOU do this?! Just now?!”

Sam’s shaky, his hand still stretched out. Sweat pearls on his face.

Dean yells, “Fuck!” and crawls closer, nose almost in the fruit bowl. “Do it again. C’mon, do that again!”

He turns to watch his little brother refasten his arm, the grip he seems to have on sheer air. How his face scrunches up in bone-deep strength, and his upper lip quivers before it lifts to a snarl. Sam’s hair hangs into his eyes in oily strings.

Movement in Dean’s peripheral. His eyes jump back to the zrte-Chke which, once more, shivers into the air without being touched.

A grunt, and Sam collapses, and so the fruit drops.

Dean whispers, “Fucking _awesome_ ,” and Sam, who pants like a madman, grins at him from ear to ear.

Sam gains muscles where Dean didn’t even know humans had them. So different from Dad’s heavy bulk, from Dean’s worker-body. A stringy, tight network Dean can’t quite take his eyes off. Like Sam is growing into a completely different species altogether. (That would answer a lot of questions.)

Weeks fly by in this new rhythm. Dangerously fast.

They’re edging on Dad’s foretold deadline, and while neither of them has addressed it to the other, Dean thinks he at least _looks_ nervous.

Finally, with three nights left to go, Dean gives in.

“So…what are you gonna do?”

He is in bed already while Sam scarfs down the generous serving of dinner Dean left out for him.

Sam doesn’t interrupt his animalistic feeding.

“They can’t, like…come with, you know. Are there any more schools somewhere else or…?”

Sam lowers himself to a food-muffled, “Everything’s gonna be fine,” between bites.

Dean’s forehead creases. “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

“That it’ll be fine. Don’t worry about it.”

“Well, but I do! Don’t _you_?”

“Are you deaf or something? How many more times would you like me to explain that it’s—”

“That doesn’t explain ANYTHING; this is just YOU, being AN ASSHOLE, Sam! TALK!”

Dean’s breath rattles. He didn’t mean to raise his voice. Didn’t mean to sit up, be this angry.

Sam looks at him like he’d look at Dad.

Not breakfast-Dad or tuck-me-in-Dad. But the dreaded it’s-time-boys-Dad.

There’s a wrath in Sam Winchester his brother never understood. Where it came from, or why any of them deserves to be near it.

Dean back-pedals, gently. “Look,” he tries, “I don’t like that you have all those— _secrets_ now. I’m scared,” because maybe brutal honesty will snap Sam out of this, “and I—frankly, I dunno what to do with it. It didn’t use to be like that.”

To Dean’s relief, Sam’s glare loses some momentum.

Sam turns back to his meal to shove another lump of bread into his mouth.

Murmurs, “Y’wouldn’t understand anything, anyway,” and Dean aches.

“Then help me understand.”

Sam chews. “It doesn’t work that way. You got it, or you don’t.”

“Got what, Sam?”

“The gift.”

Sam looks back at him now, far away. Older. A stranger.

Dean doesn’t understand.

“It’s in you or it isn’t,” Sam explains, matter-of-fact, “and you don’t have it.”

Dean nods in silence, with sheer surrender. He hates this. Hates Sam. Hates that all of this is happening and he can’t stop it.

He lies back down, facing the wall, away from the table and his brother. Wills his eyes shut, his body asleep.

Promises himself that if Sam tried to cuddle up to him, later, he’d push him away. But Sam doesn’t try.

Dean comes home from work the next day to the sight of Dad’s wrecked ship parked outside their even more wrecked apartment building. Hears him rummaging through the open windows of their place.

He needs a second to steady himself. Deep breath in—and out—and in—and out.

‘Early’ can mean anything. From health issue to imminent threat of danger to ‘oh yeah we just finished up quicker than we expected’.

“Dad?”

“Dean.”

He walks in on Dad, on his knees, hauling their belongings out of cupboards, off the shelves.

Dad is grimy, bloody. Chews on what smells like the stuff he’d use whenever he requires an extra kick to keep his body going even though it can’t.

“Get your brother. We’re leaving in ten.”

“I—” Don’t know where he is.

Dad’s eyes set immediately. “Dean?” and, “Where is he?”

Dean’s mouth opens, but there’s nothing.

“Dean, where is your brother?”

Dean’s throat tries again, “I,” and he’s stepped backwards; there’s the doorframe in his back now, and Dad begins to push himself vertical—before he stops, sinks back, continues packing.

Not before throwing Dean a dirty look, while Sam weasels past him to join Dad in his efforts, and grunting, “This ain’t no time for jokes.”

Sam’s expression begs Dean to _please just shut the fuck up_ and so Dean’s muscle memory comes back online as he shakes his head out of its stupor, and he hauls boxes upon boxes downstairs, into their ship.

They’ve got her loaded and ready to go within minutes. Buckling up his safety belt, Dean throws a sudden look back at Sam—was he able to get all of his weird-ass stuff? His heaps upon heaps of leaves, of books? His study materials?

And how the fuck did he know to be back just in time?

Sam is draped into his seat, his face blasé and his knees falling wide open. His hands are clean and elegant and too-big.

His eyes swipe towards Dean, and they hold eye contact for as long as Dad makes the ship sway with his weight as he settles into the driver’s seat, shoves another handful of herbs between his already-chewing teeth and starts the engine.

They leave behind nothing of importance.

~

“Gotta stay low for a while,” murmurs Dad with slowly fading vigor, pressed against the wall just by the window. “Month or so. Maybe two.”

Dean nods, he understands. Has Sam seated in front of him, leaning on him with Dean’s arms tiredly draped over that baby-chest.

Dad breathes heavy. He’s sweating.

Dean gets to his feet. “Get some rest. I’ll handle it.”

The gun changes hands not without hesitation. Not without Dean having to practically yank it from his father’s shaky grip.

But Dad _does_ say, “Thank you,” and _does_ rub Dean’s shoulder, and of course Dean’s turn is to smile and say, “No problem,” as he takes Dad’s place, gives the gun a short check before he really settles in position.

Eyes strictly out the window, he hears Dad collapsing into bed. Onto the futon that once was endlessly too big for Sam and Dean, and now grows troubles containing their family of three.

Dad groans. A too-light rustle. “Where are you hurt?”

Nearby and far away, Dad cough-laughs. “Where _ain’t_ I hurt?”

Dean half-listens to Sam checking up on their father. Hears the shuffle of clothes, of hands searching bare skin. Of Dad hissing, barely conscious now, whenever Sam’s instincts lead him right.

Dean inquires without turning away from his task, “How’s it look?”

“Bruises,” reports Sam. “Two fractured ribs. Not his own blood.”

A painful hiss.

“Nevermind. Shit.”

The sound of Sam getting up, naked feet sprinting towards their bags. Dean’s neck stiffens by the minute. “Talk to me, Sammy.”

“Missed the kidney, but slashed near it. He put a pressure bandage on it, which is fucking _soaked_. Goddammit—”

Dean inquires, “You alright?”

“Yeah, just—” Labored grunts from Sam. Heavy footsteps back towards the bed. “Could have fucking _said_ something.”

Dean hears their dad slur-laughing, “Sorry,” and the rest might have meant, “no time for that,” but judging by the cloudiness of his speech, he’s finally slipped into unconsciousness.

Maybe better that way, considering Sam’s setting up camp to stitch him back together.

God knows how many hours Dad’s been up and at ’em. From when exactly the injuries are. At this point, they could just be old ones, popping open with the worst timing.

The amount of thread and needles used on John Winchester is remarkable.

(It’s a popular joke among bounty hunters to ask how the fuck he is still alive and walking. John Winchester greatly prefers that to being asked that very same question with genuine _concern_.)

Dean keeps his position by the window. Might be here all night—but he doesn’t know this planet, doesn’t know what time it is here, and maybe this _is_ daylight. It is dark out, lulled into purple blackness. Always such a game of roulette with the ‘recommendations’ Dad’s work buddies supply him with, regarding planets with human-friendly conditions. At least they could drop the spacesuits on this one.

His eyes swim to Sam for one quick, selfish time. Catch that little back all bowed, the tight-strung frame of him working on their dead-to-the-world dad, sprawled on his back. His arm extended and his gloved hand curled heavenwards like a ‘please’.

~

‘Staying low’ used to be code for Dean’s brain, spelling: a good time.

Because Dad would be with them for so long. So long he’d almost (almost) forget they’d separate again. Would have to play the waiting game again.

But Dean feels torn now—between pleasing Dad and consoling Sam. There doesn’t seem to be space for what he wants himself.

Where did they go wrong? When did he lose _this_ , too?

Sam is a caged animal. Growls and hisses and hides. Dean catches him attempting to sneak out of their hiding spot two whole times. He’s gonna lose his mind.

“What are you _doing_?!” he’d hiss, that too-thin arm a bulging threat in his still-stronger hand, begging everything and anyone that Dad won’t hear, won’t notice, won’t _know_.

And Sam would just glare at him like Dean didn’t have the right to stop him. Touch him. Protect him.

It takes Sam all but eight days until he basically shits on everything they are, what the two of them stand for and Dean’s efforts, his labor, until he upturns one of his bags with his magick crap in broad view of fucking everyone.

Dad asks, alarmed, “What is that?” with his eyes on the foreign mess and he means Dean, addresses _Dean_ with that, not Sam, because it’s _Dean’s_ responsibility.

But it’s Sam who replies, Sam who snaps, “My studies,” and after a measly handful of seconds of letting it hit Dad right in the face he adds, “I’m a witch in training.”

Dad’s mouth is agape and he truly turns towards Dean now, pointing at Dean’s devil of a sibling and his eyebrows almost kiss his (these days rapidly receding) hairline.

Dean, pale as hell, shrugs.

“Did you know about this?”

Sam interjects, “I do what I WANT,” and it’s the oddest thing.

How Dad snaps towards his youngest, because how _dare_ _he_ talk to him like that, but then—flailing, mentally, and you can _see_ that; how his eyes bulge and swim and his mouth quivers because there’s so much he wants to say, to order and control and express his concerns because he _loves_ this child, of course he does, and this clearly isn’t _safe_ to do because John Winchester is not familiar with honest-to-god magick, because that shit is unsafe _ipso facto_ —and yet…

There’s not a peep to be heard. Not one stern remark. Not one _Samuel Winchester_.

John Winchester deflates in his defeat. Sighs, once, and rubs at his face too hard, but leaves it at that.

Everyone except for Sam, who sets his supplies in meticulous order now, seems highly upset about that. You can smell it in the air, the fucking… _insolence_ of it all!

Dean can’t believe this.

It’s not fair.

It’s not fair.

~

Sam makes a very strict routine out of his body hygiene. Has been doing that ever since.

Takes his little towel, douses the towel in RK2KI—starts with his face. Three circles, clockwise; behind his ears, through his hair. Down his neck then, his chest, his back. His arms, his armpits, torso, legs, feet. Between his legs last. He says it’s yucky despite the chemical dissolving every odor immediately. He says he doesn’t like anything touching him ‘there’.

It’s been a war to get Sam into wearing underwear, or pants.

Dean’s been noticing the slow but deliberate revival of dress-ish clothes lately, of old Dad or Dean shirts that reach his knees or sometimes (just-so) mid-thigh.

Dean Winchester _will_ lose his mind.

This whole rebellion thing—who gave this kid the _right_? Who decided that yeah, sure, Sam can do whatever the fuck he wants?

“I can see your entire ass, you know,” he grumbles, and Sam, the fucking demon, just throws him an uninterested glance, and keeps reading.

Dean kicks him in the shin. Sam kicks him back.

Dean gets his foot on the back of Sam’s leg and pushes until Sam’s nearly folded, until he loses balance on his pillow and bellows, “HEY!” and with his ‘tunic’ flipped like that he’s all bare to the world, to his brother’s eyes, but the only thing annoying him is his reading time being disturbed.

Dad reprimands, “Stop fighting, you two!” and Dean’s fuming—if Dad wasn’t here, he’d get atop his brother, twists one of those fucking arms behind that treacherous back, let the worm fucking wheeze under the heft of his entire weight—

“Dean started it!”

“Dean, stop terrorizing your brother!”

Dean’s leg retracts, and he shoots to a stand, and he punches the wall because there’s nothing else he can think of—

His hand cracks audibly, horribly, and the pain is immediate.

Dad’s up too, now. “What the—are you INSANE?”

and Sam just laughs.

Like.

Rolling on the floor laughing.

Dean cradles his hand and hisses at his own tears, and he hates, oh, he _hates_.

~

Dad’s cooking skills drastically improved over the years. Whenever he returns, there are new recipes, new ingredients.

Dean hates it. Hates that Dad has a life going on when he’s away from them. That he gets to do and learn things and all Sam and him can do is wait. A second life, where he’s not their daddy but a nobody instead. Someone without kids, without a dead wife, without a past or future.

Dad cooks them breakfast. Sam is still asleep. Dean is by the window, gun in his hand.

“You boys shouldn’t fight,” hums Dad. He’s slipped most of his protectors off, pulled a fresh shirt over his head, cleaned himself up. His hands look foreign without that pair of fingerless gloves, even more so as they stir their generous meal. “You never know what tomorrow will bring. Imagine the last thing you told your brother is something horrible. You can’t undo that.”

Dean wants to tell him: easy for you to say—you don’t know him. Says, instead, “I guess.”

“Is he good?”

“Huh?”

“With his training.” Even lower, “With magick.”

“I, uh. I dunno.” Dean blinks, fucking exhausted from keeping watch for hours, and maybe he didn’t hear that right. He plans on collapsing into bed as soon as his stomach has been filled. “I have no fucking clue about that shit. But I guess he’s doing alright.”

Dad nods. “Hm,” he makes, and the hint of a smile flashes right then and there.

Dean watches it and feels the hole in his stomach pulling him deeper.

~

The Winchester arsenal of weapons is of wide variety and size. Crude simplicity or high-tech, big or small—you name it, it’s either in here or quickly gathered from the nooks and crannies of Dad’s ship.

Sam, whenever asked to give any of them a try, appears to be uncommonly clumsy. Dean might have managed to beat the laser gun training into him with vicious force, yes, but that’s all he could accomplish.

Dean’s hands, however, are familiar with every single item.

Dad showed him—how to fire those guns, grip those knives, wield those blades. Would sit him down and it would be a ceremony: explaining calm and clear which part does what and why, and what Dean has to pay attention to.

It never felt dangerous, because Dad would guide him. Dad would make it so Dean would be invincible. As he’d teach him, time would gently stop, all threats and worries would dissolve. Just Dad and him, Dad’s sole focus on Dean and what Dean was doing.

Only now, as he grows older, parts of Dean begin to question unquestionable things, such as: don’t let anybody see. Don’t tell anybody. Don’t talk to anybody.

Weapons never felt ‘dirty’. Holding, loading and pointing a gun never felt ‘immoral’. It was what had to be done, because Dad said so. Because otherwise, Sammy and Dean and Dad would die. Dean doesn’t want any of them to die, of course. And Dad always knows best.

On the market, nobody walked around with weapons. Everyone was friendly, and nobody seemed to care about how vulnerable their position was, how easy it’d be for an enemy to overpower them, take advantage, kill.

On no market he’s been on—except for the bounty hunter ones Dad had brought him and Sam to if the urgency of the situation called for it, those ‘black markets’—did he ever see an argument exceed the exchange of some curse words or threatening waves of fists.

Barred off in their hide-out, far away from civilization and the ghost of normalcy, Dean Winchester’s brain fosters the idea how maybe, _maybe_ his family is very, grossly, inexorably different from what humans are supposed to be like.

Like Sam is different—detesting weapons and machinery because apparently, he’s decided to become a fucking forest spirit.

Like Dean is different—practical and cold-feeling and you can hand him anything, at any given moment, and he’ll take it apart for you, put it back together even faster.

Like Dad is different.

Dean’s brain swims in the fog between dream and reality. He’s warm, and he’s safe, but he’s not. Never such a thing as safety. But Dad’s here, so it’ll be fine. Dad watches out.

Pressure against his skin. He stirs and there’s warmth, and softness. Muscle-memory to curl around, hug tight.

A sigh. Finally.

Dean’s body reacts like an animal of its own. Crawled upon him over the years without making itself known officially. Like dust, settling.

It’s a pesky little thing. Demands, unapologetically, and it won’t be satisfied until Dean gives in.

The weight all snug against his front is just firm enough. As he begins to fill out, the pressure builds, like it always does. So easy to just go with it, give it what it wants. Barely-rolls his hips and that’s really, really good.

A hand on his mouth. His brain wakes just that little more.

Slits between his eyelids and there’s Sam, finger on his own lips.

It’s dark. Sam in bed means Dad’s by the window, awake. Watching—not them, but.

Dean’s stomach twists.

A sudden sweat, and his cock fattens to painful fullness, wedged between their stomachs.

Dean wills his eyes shut. Tries not to smell Sam’s hand, Sam’s hair, Sam’s breath.

Sam’s hand lifts from Dean’s mouth to dip between their bodies.

Dean cringes, very unsure very suddenly, because this hasn’t happened before and he didn’t expect. But he can’t let go. Can’t untangle their bodies.

Sam’s palm tugs at him blindly, artlessly, and Dean forgets how to breathe.

Curls tighter and Sam should be crushed with it, shouldn’t be able to keep moving his goddamn hand, but he can, and he does.

Dean’s lip quivers and his throat tightens. Eyes squeezed shut and it’s so much, it’s _too_ much.

Don’t move. Don’t let Dad see.

God, don’t let him _know_.

He spills against Sam’s hand. Into his own pants.

That hand wipes itself clean against his hip. Slips from the waistband of his pants, away. Leaves Dean shaky and shivery and too-awake, still-again hard and he swears he can feel Sam smiling into his chest. Feels that mirror of hardness digging into his thigh, the too-hot throb of it.

Fall asleep. Fall _asleep_.

~

Sam’s all small-mouthed, all demure with his strict, watchful eyes. Used to look much more dwarfed with Dad’s gun in his hands, and where did that small boy ever go?

He’s quiet these days. Ever since Dad announced they’ll leave soon, just a couple more days, boys, just a couple. Does he preserve his energy? Is there a plan? Anything?

Dean glares in mutual silence. Hasn’t offered Sam his front again in bed; turned or curled away at any approach, and Sam doesn’t seem offended or mean about it, just.

Dean doesn’t understand anything anymore.

Himself, particularly.

Can’t stop thinking about it. All about Sam seems to shift shape every day—grows clearer, stranger.

Dean’s skin is too tight. Pulls at his seams, and for a first time, the idea of Dad leaving kindles something like…anticipation.

Not having to be on watch all the time, every day, anymore. Under the threat of those weighted eyes, the always-lingering criticism of a glance, a twitch in that face. Sam will finally continue getting his education, even though he doesn’t quite deserve it. But Dean is acutely aware of how nobody will keep him from it, no matter what.

Also, Dean doesn’t fucking know _how_ the fuck the magick folk will find his brother on the random planet Dad’s gonna drop them off at, but he _does_ know.

Sam big-eye rolls and bitch-sighs at Dean’s rushed little, “You’re not letting them track you, are you?!” and explains that, “No, _Dean_ , I’m not _dumb_. It doesn’t _work_ that way,” like Dean is somehow supposed to know.

He needs this to be over. The close quarters. The monotony.

As they finally exit the hide-out to recover the ship and leave—only Dad knows where—Dean throws the place a last glance before he turns away forever.

~

Sam is angel-sweet, all artificial. Hangs loose in Dad’s last hug, tells him, “Love you too, daddy,” before Dean gets his turn. His last squeeze before Dad’s gone.

Pressing his face into the crook of that neck, hearing Dad’s always-honest, “I love you, Dean,” and Dean’s turn is to tell him, “Love you too,” and his throat feels raw with it. Sore and too-open.

The brothers watch John depart. How the ship raises into the air—and disappears.

When they were little, Sam used to insist on blinking a lot would bring him back. See, he’s right there, can’t you see him?

Dean remains seated by the window while Sam scurries off immediately.

He blinks, absently, overcome with sudden and marrow-deep regret. But Dad’s gone. He’s gone again.

Sam promises, “He’ll be back before you know,” and Dean hums, “Hm,” and doesn’t feel comforted at all.

He thinks that he’d say it more convincingly, back when it was the other way around.

~

Dean works and Sam studies. It’s a new way of living, and Dean struggles with the growing distance. With missing so much of Sam’s life. With the shocking reveal that Dean himself has a life now. A life of his own.

Dean turns eighteen. It’s a wet-cold day.

Dad sends a hologram, says he’s proud, that he loves Dean, and happy birthday, take some extra money from the case and grab something nice to eat for once. Sam eats most of said food but he does create a show with colors and lights and scented powders in return.

It’s all very strange and complicated-looking and Dean laughs and asks too many questions, which makes Sam irritated and brat-mouthed, and it’s fun. Dean gets his hand slapped, his head slapped. Pokes his fingers into heaps of herbs until there’s yelling. New necklaces dangle from Sam’s stringy neck. Dean likes the sound of all those pendants jingling against each other as Sam works and moves.

“You’re a _pain_ ,” he earns. He hasn’t been smiling this hard in what feels like forever. “Now sit back and watch, and you better watch _close_ , ’cause it’s all you’re gonna get!”

Which turns out to be a lie. Because after the magick has been magicked and the spontaneous small fires have been put out and all food has been consumed, Sam crawls into bed with him. Should be natural, not-special, but it’s still Dean’s birthday and Dean is still happy. So happy he feels stupid with it.

One paw on Sam’s almost-bare hip, slide down that very-bare thigh. “That what they teach you? Fireworks and colors?”

“Among other things, yeah.”

“Such as?”

Sam snaps, “I can’t tell you,” and plays with that lone amulet strung from Dean’s neck while Dean pulls that leg up to hook over his hip. Yanks Sam closer so they’re basically crotch to crotch, and Sam throws him a daring look before he pretends to ignore the situation altogether. “It’s secret stuff. And you wouldn’t understand anyway.”

Dean smiles in conspiracy. In wild anticipation. Tilts his hips forwards so his semi can bump against Sam’s. “Maybe I can. Try me.”

Sam insists that, “No,” and, “you’re a jerk,” and humps back at Dean with barely any force.

Dean’s hand rubs back up to that hip. Behind, to almost-cup that ass; just to help him give it to him right. Tugs and shoves and Sam’s body is willing, so fucking naked with just the tiny loincloth Sam’s grown painfully accustomed with over the past couple weeks in terms of underwear (just to fuck with Dean’s head, Dean insinuates).

Sam love-huffs. Makes a dreamy face which he then tucks into Dean’s chest.

Dean moves them tight and practiced. Things get sticky faster now with Sam growing and developing and it’s fucking gross and wonderful.

That pendant-hand to Dean’s tit now, pressing as if Sam wanted to push away, but he doesn’t. Dean’s on his side and his one arm supports his head, squishes his ear, and he does not fucking care, not in the least. All he can think is this, the chase of that bliss, of Sam grinding against him right back, like the two of them belong just like this. Grew into this.

Sharpening breath against Dean’s sternum. The slip of sweat on sweat, the ghost of Sam’s lips clenching and lulling back open, like he’d smack them whenever he’s lost in concentration, when nothing can reach him.

Dean rolls onto his brother in a swift mood, and Sam’s eyes fly open once in surprise but stutter closed as they catch Dean’s, as Dean’s weight redistributes itself right where it counts.

Arms and legs wind around Dean. Little monkey, ankles crossed over the ever-moving force of Dean’s ass. Holds one tiny wrist with the other hand and goes chin-to-chest to stay all secret.

A hint of a whine as Sam finishes first, all messy and shivery and Dean holds out just that much longer for it, just to get him all squirmy and overstimulated and twitchy. Until he’s perfectly hard again by the time Dean follows over that edge, keeps himself perfectly silent and still while his balls pump relentlessly.

So Dean can roll off of him, perfectly pleased and sated, and Sam will glare at him all sweaty and red-cheeked and accusing. So Dean can grin and silently dare him to just fucking _ask_. But Sam doesn’t, and Dean wouldn’t ever inquire out loud.

Sam buries his face deep in Dean’s armpit, and Dean wraps one arm around him to pull and hold him close.

Lies on his back now, panting, open-mouthed, happy.

~

Sam’s fifteen and comes home with a ring in his ear.

Dean’s already fucking furious before Sam pulls up his shirt to reveal the _other_ ring that he’s got.

“It didn’t even HURT,” and Dean will absolutely kill him. “Everyone has one!”

“NOBODY _I_ KNOW!”

“’Cause you don’t know ANYBODY!”

“I work at the fucking medical office!” Dean bellows, “You know how many TITS I see all day?! NOBODY’S fucking got ANY of that shit, Sam!”

“Oh, that’s what you do all day?! Looking at TITS?! Fucking GREAT.”

Dean clamps that freshly assaulted nipple through Sam’s shirt and twists.

Sam screams.

“FUCK!” Slaps at Dean once, punches after. “Are you INSANE?! FUCK you!”

Dean can’t say anything through the violent clench of his teeth. Lets Sam stomp off, bang the door to their room.

Dean bows forward, over the table. His head in his hands, he sighs; loudly, painfully.

Sam will come out later that night, console how, “I did them myself,” and, “I know what I’m doing, trust me,” but Dean will still have the urgent need to strangle him.

Will ask, heartbroken, “Why?” and Sam will respond all-flat, “Because I wanted to.”

What a concept! Treachery!

You’re still a fucking Winchester! We don’t get to do what we _want_!

Sam’s thighs clutch extra-hard that night. So Dean can let loose, can fuck that not-gap with all the anger he’s got boiling in him. Is all quiet and tame in his generous apology, doesn’t make a single move to at least put Dean’s hand on his cock to get him off as well.

Lets Dean bury his scrunched face into the back of his neck and growl useless nothings, animal-sounds that don’t have much meaning beyond just being let _out_.

Sam inquires, after, “I thought you’d like it,” all soft and teary and young and Dean almost kisses him that night. Almost.

Dean thinks about that night a lot.

~

“I was wondering if you were free tonight.”

Dean looks up. Meets those eyes.

Shies back down. Puts a polite smile. “Sorry. Gotta look after my brother.”

She says, “I see,” and her fingers graze the back of his hand. “Maybe another time?”

Dean tells her, “Sure,” and leaves the office and his boss behind for the day.

He likes this planet, this town, these locals. Likes the weather—humid and not too warm, not too cold. Likes his job in that tiny bakery, likes to get up at the break of dawn and be out by noon. Likes that their neighbors are kind and sorta wealthy and love him, him especially, because he’s so handy to have around the house and the wife slips him money and the dad slips him money and the kiddos don’t talk back like Sam would.

Dean’s savings grow beautifully with both the day job and the odd work for neighbors or colleagues. He’s back before Sam comes home, can cook dinner and tidy the place up (Sam always leaves in such a hurried mess every morning, even though it’s slowly improving).

Fixes a pipe and gets a, “Well done,” and the children are in a different room and the wife is at work, and Dean smiles all proud until that hand pets at his ass to stuff the money into his back pocket. “As always.”

Dean’s brain-freeze doesn’t last too long, thanks to the youngest barging in on them, demanding attention and a napkin, possibly both.

Dean rushes, “Hey now,” and flees with the little one, cradles him and helps him and says, “I gotta leave now, see you guys soon.”

He makes a point of being too rushed to accept that usually-offered hug.

Hears that low-muttered, “Slut,” though, pretends he doesn’t, and makes haste to get the fuck home.

Dean likes this home. Lots of light, curtains. He got new pillows, cleans the built-in kitchen with utmost care. Took quite the effort to scrub off all that chalk the previous tenant had left behind, but it’s worth it.

He likes it here. He really does.

Dean gathers ingredients. It’s his day to pick a recipe. Sam comes home early, loud and tired.

Throws his bags off himself with a relieved sigh and mopes around the kitchen until it’s time to eat. Passes their time with complaints and excited thoughts and theories he’s picked up or invented himself—there doesn’t always seem to be a way to differentiate. Dean doesn’t mind.

Dean looks at him over dinner for a first real time today. Watches the hard lines of his fingers gripping the freshly-polished cutlery; the rings adorning those knuckles in the company of what he ponders might be just the beginning of a collection of tattoos (hand-poked and tiny and Dean watched him do most of them because he doesn’t fucking trust and Sam was easily willing to entertain that obsession of Dean’s).

Catches those eyes, the fan of those lashes and the prissy-toned, “What?” because there’s always a suspicion somewhere in Sam nowadays.

Sam’s brother replies, “Nothin’,” and means it.

Smiles, a little, into his food.

Sam stuffs his pipe while he rubs himself clean. His hair is growing so long these days, kisses his shoulders and hangs in his eyes constantly, but he says he doesn’t mind.

Dean takes care of the dishes. There’s such a peace all over this place—just Sam and him, and they haven’t fought in forever, because everyone’s contended with their work and their progress. Sam’s confident and comfortable, all naked and clean and smokes because Dean asked him once if it’s safe, and Sam said yes, so Dean did not inquire again. He’s getting too old for that shit.

He takes a seat opposite to Sam. Watches him getting drowsy, his freshly washed hair all soft and fringy and his cheek rests on his knuckles.

Dean finds toes underneath the table, nudges them with his own. Gets a chuckle and a scratchy heel flirting up his clothed shin, and he’s smiling, too.

“Can I have some?”

“You want some?”

“Just a try. See if I like it.”

“Sure,” says Sam, hands the pipe over.

Dean turns it in his fingers. So light-weighed; beautifully decorated with carvings that don’t make much sense to Dean’s eyes. Sam crafted this himself.

“Just put it in your mouth and breathe deep.”

Dean says, “Smartass,” with the thing between his teeth already, and he takes a deep inhale and—

He’s never coughed this hard in his entire life.

Sam laughs.

“Very—funny!”

“You gonna vomit?”

Dean’s mouth splutters, “No,” but his still-spasming body ponders differently.

He recovers, tries again. Sam snatches the pipe from him. “Enough for now.”

Dean sits back. The smoke exits him with his offended chuckle.

“How’s it feel?”

Dean laughs. “Pretty good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Sam keeps his amused eyes on him as he takes another deep hit. Inhales such a huge fucking lungful and it doesn’t seem to end, until he finally detaches from the pipe.

“Fuck.” Dean grins, wipes his hand through his face before he palms himself between his legs. “Does it make you hard too, or…?”

“Not anymore. Used to, though,” confides Sam, and his skinny shoulders shift under his thick, tanned skin. A differently shaded smile.

Dean gets that foot where his body decided to send all available blood and groans. Gets a hold of that ankle to guide it like he wants. Licks his too-dry lip, feels himself murmuring, “Shit,” and the world feels so, so good. “Is it too early for bed?”

“I don’t wanna when you’re like this.”

Dean scoffs, eyes closed. Rubs Sam’s foot against his cock. “You enabled me, you little shit.”

Sam yanks at his leg, gets it free. Tells him, sweetly, “T’was your choice, y’know,” and, “Give it half an hour, it’ll pass.”

Dean groans. His head lolls. His palm doesn’t feel anywhere as good as Sam’s. “Half an hour, you say?”

“Half an hour.” Sam relights his pipe with a smile, takes another hit.

Dean whines.

Sam teases, “C’mon, you’re not gonna _die_.”

Sam doesn’t know anything.

Acts like he’s so fucking smart and secretive, but he doesn’t know shit.

Doesn’t know about the things Dean wants and the things Dean needs. Walks around with his nose up high and thinks that just because he says so, Dean will bow and bend.

It’s not like that. It’s not like that at all.

Sam’s all loose-limbed and naked, barely stoned and Dean suspects a light dose because he’s only just a little tingly now as he joins his brother on the futon. Hears Sam’s soft little noise of comfort upon getting big-spooned, helps Dean pulling his shirt over his head while still lying down, helps him shimmying out of his pants.

Dean presses close, arms clasped around that wiry chest, and Sam sighs all loved. Dean gets a hand raking through the short-short strands of his hair, an ass curling out for his barely-flagged cock to smear against, and he takes that invitation just as he takes the one for the back of Sam’s neck.

Buries his nose here first, eyes closed again because they’re so tired, so heavy, and his lips slur here, too; slip-slide until they meet skin, until his tongue pushes forward for a taste.

Sam honest to god gasps.

Shudders under Dean’s palms, and Dean holds him tighter, kisses his neck softer. Licks and sucks until he smells his own spit. Until Sammy’s writhing and pulling his hair.

Dean’s cock nudges wet into Sam’s even wetter crack. Can’t stop because how would he, could he? Rubs himself stupid here and it’s so, so good.

There’s a moment of them figuring it out. Of them moving with intent, for once, and being aware that the other is doing the same, for real.

 _Sammy_ is on Dean’s tongue, together with the shy press of his already-messy cock right up against where Dean feels him forcing open, where Sam lets him and Dean swears he hears him scream-thinking his name, urging him on—

The front door bangs open with such commotion that the brothers not only push apart but shoot upright, and Dean feels immediately sick even before Dad hollers their names.

Sam yells, “Shit!” and has slipped into his pants, ran to the (thank god still closed) bedroom door before Dean can even _begin_ to gather himself together. “Dad?!”

Dean’s jelly-kneed, unsure like a newborn. Falls while struggling into his pants and hears, “Five minutes, boys, _we only got five minutes_ , PLEASE HURRY THE FUCK UP!”

Dean isn’t himself. Hauls lifeless belongings and all of it is Sam’s, none is his but Mom’s little picture and he holds that closest, throws and runs and once they’ll be inside the ship and seated and in the air, he’ll bend aside with how violent his stomach empties, and Dad will scold, “For fuck’s sake,” and Sam won’t say a thing.

~

Sam doesn’t even _try_ to talk about it, so that’s that.

Would be easy to tell himself that he just hallucinated the whole thing, but Dean remembers every little detail. That, combined with the shock Dad gave them, makes things excruciatingly real.

Dean feels trapped. Feels strung up and tossed and embarrassed, and his heart won’t stop hammering.

He can’t cry.

He finds a job in this new rathole, poisoned and low-paid like the entire planet. One of the tiny city’s three only bars, and they were hiring. Dean’s very fucking fine with having easy access to some fucking ethanol right now.

It burns on the way down, little less on the way up (as he finds out eventually). Different from Sam’s pipe in all the ways, first and foremost because it tastes like literal hell, and his entire body hates it.

(Booze isn’t illegal per se, but very few species are fucking stupid enough to deliberately poison themselves. Humans get their usual weird look and a ‘sure, if you _want_ to?’ from the Federation.)

Dean works nights. Maybe life doesn’t hate him _as_ much, because this way, at least he gets to avoid Sam virtually all day and night—one brother is at home only when the other one isn’t.

Dad is off doing whatever to whomever again, far away. Fighting, making deals, stealing. Dean finds himself without interest and little care about said lack of interest.

It’s a busy night. All nights are busy around here.

Dean’s contended only in this place anymore, where he gets to call the shots, keep everything as clean as he wants (or doesn’t), gets to drink as much as he wants as long as the billing still comes out right in the morning.

Dean gets flirted at. Dean gets whistled at and Dean gets all kinds of offers. Dean is disgusted with himself, rejects everyone with a polite smile and maybe a punch later, if he has to. His left hook is in high demand those first few weeks.

Maybe it would be good. To find something else. Someone else.

He doesn’t know what he had told himself. How blind he had been. How he could have thought that everything would just keep being okay. How there wouldn’t be consequences.

But he doesn’t trust himself _or_ his body. Hesitation makes him powerless and stutter-y, and as little as _thinking_ about anything even loosely tied to that goddamn night is enough to make him want to crawl and hide.

He’s miserable. He knows.

What a fit though, for him to be stuck in this dirty fucking place. Dirt mingling with dirt. Lowest of the low, sketchy and too-loud people.

Dad truly outdid himself this time. Fucking hellscape.

The drowsiness of one-too-many drinks helps with the constant snap of fingers and whistles for his well-honored attention. He’s sweating and semi-starved, pours drinks and beers and they’re making great numbers tonight; not that he’d see much of it.

Through the daze and flurry of faces, of the constant come and go, there is one that seems to have settled to Dean’s right. Quiet, peacefully, the stranger doesn’t seem bothered by the brawl going on all around them.

Didn’t even get a drink yet, hell.

Dean pants, “What can I get you?” because at least _someone’s_ got manners and he can award that if he wants, this is _his_ fucking bar as long as he’s behind the counter.

Those bright blue eyes tinge with an intensifying smile. “What’s the strongest you’ve got?”

Dean cocks his head as he raises his eyebrows. Produces one of the many bottles and slams it down right in front of the guy.

“Make it two, please.”

Dean grunt-smiles, pours. “That’s the spirit.”

“One for you, one for me.”

“Oh, nice try.” Dean shoves the drinks towards them. “I don’t drink with customers.”

They grab one of the two, raise them towards Dean with a smile. “Then I shall drink this one in your honor.” They throw it back. They grab the other one. “And this one in mine.”

Dean cracks a ‘sure, whatever’ smile and tends to the many other guests. Pours drink after drink and one for himself when he can.

Finds blue-eyes where he left him, still gently smiling and, honestly, beginning to freak him the fuck out.

“You sure you don’t drink with customers?”

“Positive,” bellows Dean. “Another?”

“If I purchase the entire bottle,” blue-eyes ponders, “will you tell me your name?”

“Buddy,” Dean laughs, “if you buy the whole bottle, I’ll carry you to the fucking hospital in my own goddamn arms.”

A bundle of money appears in the man’s hand, and Dean’s eyes aren’t the only ones in the not-so-short proximity magically drawn to it.

The bundle gets precision-tossed over the counter, safe from everyone’s access but Dean’s alone, and Dean glares at the guy and is met with a sort of pleased expression he thought only his spoiled brat of a brother would have the balls for in this shade of Dean’s unfiltered wrath.

Dean shoves the nearly full bottle across the counter.

A bright smile. “And?”

He grits, “Dean. Winchester,” and the guy settles that much more comfortably in his seat. Unscrews the bottle, retrieves his two empty glasses to refill them.

“Now, tell me, Dean Winchester,” and Dean regrets many, _many_ choices simultaneously, “do you have a rule for someone offering you a drink from their _personal_ bottle of alcohol?”


	2. REBELLION

Dean Winchester doesn’t think much of it, and maybe that’s for the better.

Because as soon as Castiel’s and Sam’s eyes meet, something changes deeply, irrevocably, and even Dean Winchester, who is not particularly sensitive to the supernatural, is overcome with the panicked urge of wanting to _turn back time_.

But, as already said, he doesn’t think much of it. Brushes it aside and forgets about it for what will feel like a long, long time.

Sam’s expression tightens in his distrust. “Who’s _that_?”

“My boss. I _told_ you about him,” lies Dean, nervous with potential embarrassment. To be honest, he’d counted on his brother coming home super late. It’s barely even around six. Dean turns towards Cas, points at his brother. “That’s Sam, my little brother. Sam, this is Cas.”

Cas extends his hand, offers a polite, “Nice to meet you,” but all Sam does is look at Cas like he’s a diseased patch of dirt.

“Great, I’ll be in my room,” he grunts, fucking cunt, and Dean throws silent glares before Cas returns his attention back to him.

“He’s—difficult. Teenagers, y’know.”

Cas nods. “Of course.”

The door slams shut with emphasis.

Cas stifles his laugh while Dean’s hand curls to a fist.

They’re currently in transit, Cas said, hence his lack of a place to sleep. Dean provides, of course. It’s the least he can do.

There are several things about this new turn of events he cannot and will not report to his father, of course. Letting strangers into their home? Dad wouldn’t understand—that Castiel is good people. That Dean quit his job two days ago to go help him out instead.

Cas introduces him to the rest of the crew today, finally. Dean puts up his polite façade as he observes like a hawk, walks close to Cas and shakes hands, remembers names—Ellen, Bobby, Rufus, Ash, Jody. He love-hates that they look at him the same way he looks at them:

warily.

“Max and Annie are on a supply run right now. They’ll be back shortly.”

Dean nods.

“We’re about to put our very own beaming network into action very soon.”

Dean’s interest perks. “How’d you get your hands on _those_?”

“Oh,” Rufus injects, “you mean those Fed-regulated high-security pieces of equipment that usually only run in a tightly monitored web?”

Bobby scoffs. “Show-off.”

Rufus sums up, “We’re just that good, kid.”

“It will provide us with vast possibilities. I was thinking of giving you one of the devices.”

“Me?”

Cas hums, “Yes,” and hasn’t taken his hand off Dean’s back for a minute. “You were concerned about your father changing your location every other month, weren’t you? Beaming should solve this issue.”

“I—wow, I don’t know what to, uh. Say.”

Ellen agrees, has her arms crossed tight in front of her chest now. “You serious, Cas?”

“Why, yes. We need all the help we can get, isn’t that right?”

Dean tries, “I don’t wanna be a bother,” and Cas calmly replies, “It is arguable what would be more of an inconvenience—handing an invaluable piece of our tech to you, a brand-new member, or upsetting John Winchester’s fragile sense of security.”

A stunned silence.

Ash speaks first. “John fucking Winchester? As in: _the_ John Winchester?”

Rufus frowns, worried. “Is there more than one?” and Ellen murmurs, “God, I hope not.”

Cas answers, “Yes. And no.” That hand goes from Dean’s back to Dean’s shoulder, grips him tight. Cas smiles. “Ladies and gentlemen, you are looking at John Winchester’s firstborn son.”

More silence. Dean feels pale.

He turns to Cas, hesitant. Quietly, “Do all of you, uh… _know_ him?”

Bobby tells him, “He’s a legend, son.”

“Only amongst certain spheres, of course.”

“Like our sphere,” winks Ash.

Dean says, “Oh,” and, “I…had no idea.”

Ellen informs, “Your daddy’s as big of a fish as it gets,” and Dean’s paleness slowly but surely makes space for some proud, proud red.

~

Cas orders, “Show them,” and so Dean’s hands set into motion.

The crew watches him work. How part after part, screw after screw finds its new place outside of the gun—an old model; huge, automatic, bullets.

Dean’s hands lay flat on the table and he announces, “Done,” and in his peripheral—his eyes remain strict on the metal guts in front of him—nobody moves as much as a muscle.

A short pause before Cas commands, “Reassemble.”

Dean’s fingers fly even faster.

There is nothing but this. Why he was hired, what makes him valuable.

This is a test. He will not fail.

He cocks the gun, ready to go, puts it down and tells them, “Done,” hands on the table, too, and he _does_ dare to look up now.

A long while of nothing in which Dean Winchester swears he sees all mistakes he has ever made in his entire life pass by his eyes.

Dean Winchester has made a plethora of mistakes.

Finally, Rufus announces, “I’m done,” and shrugs, and his voice raises with helplessness. “I’m done, I can retire now.”

Cas proudly announces, “He did it just as fast after half a bottle of Xaxc-Lin,” and Jody snorts a dry laugh.

Bobby breaks his own silence with, “How come you always find _these_ kinds of people?”

Cas’ hand is back. Dean half-cranes his head to meet those eyes.

Cas says, “We usually find each other,” and for once, Dean doesn’t have to force his smile.

~

“My daughter,” Dean hears, eyes and fingers on that slowly fading photograph. “Claire.”

“She’s got your eyes.”

“She really does.”

“You miss her?”

“Every second.” Cas reaches over Dean to get a hold of their current bottle. “I try to see her as much as I can, of course. But it’s complicated, given our situation.” Cas sets the bottle to his mouth, drinks. Looks tired when he’s getting tipsy like this, older, softer. His thumb grazes Dean’s, still clasped around the precious picture. “I cannot risk endangering her, you know. Being associated with me usually doesn’t…end well for people.”

Dean nods, reverent. Laid out on his back, in his own room on his own futon with someone who had been a stranger mere days ago. Who feels like an extension of himself by now.

“I’ve lost…people. Family. Before.” Cas retrieves the picture. Up on one elbow, his hair a complete mess, his unshaven face, the dirt of days passing him by without a thorough wash so obvious on the once-white of his blouse. “I try…y’know, I really _try_.” Heavy eyes back on Dean now, the too-bright blue of them like a beacon. A lighthouse in a sea of nothing. “You got any kids?”

“No. Nah, I’m too young for that.”

“Twenty years do not make a man too young, Dean Winchester.”

Dean grabs for the bottle. “Well, didn’t get to it,” and he takes a generous swig before he puts it back down.

Cas’s eyes and smile are still solely directed at him. “Are you seeing anyone?”

“I, uh, nah. No, not currently.” It’s not a lie, he thinks. “And, uh, you? I mean, are you and Claire’s mother still…?”

Cas tells him, “Amelia isn’t bound to me, as much as I am not bound to her. Or anyone, for that matter.”

Dean’s eyebrow raises. “Amelia knows about that, too?”

Cas’ smile turns into a grin, into a shy flash of his teeth. “I am no man of monogamy. She knew as much by the time we decided to have a child.”

Dean says, “Huh,” for a complete lack of a better response.

Cas’ fingers touch Dean’s as he takes the bottle back from him. “You seem surprised.”

“It just never crossed my mind.”

A smack of lips. Cas’ breath. The sly smile on that mouth.

Dean feels himself blushing. “I don’t, uh. Get to meet people, usually.”

“Daddy’s rules, huh?”

Dean nods.

“Sounds awfully familiar.” A scoff, more booze. Cas gazes into the bottle for a moment before he refocuses on Dean, finds his smile again. “He doesn’t own you, though. You know that, right?”

“Sure. Yeah.” Dean’s turn on the bottle.

Dean ignores the gentle rubbing of Cas’ thumb against his shoulder until it finally retreats.

Cas hums, stretches. Eyes Dean, who wants to reach over, get a hold of that hand. Who wants to ask where all those scars that peek through Cas’ clothes come from—but doesn’t.

He can’t decide why not.

“You are your own person, Dean. You don’t owe anything to anyone.”

~

Sam stands in front of him like a threat. Arms crossed, his face a stranger.

“I’m gonna tell Dad,” he hisses, and Dean stands immediately.

“No, you fucking won’t!” Can’t, doesn’t, won’t say: after everything we’ve been through? After everything I’ve _done_ for you? Really?

“You can’t let some fucking rando crash at our place for days on end!” Sam keeps his voice down low; these walls are thin, and Cas has just vanished into the bathroom moments ago before Sam decided to crawl out of his own room to be a bitch. “I can’t believe that _you_ have to be reminded of that!”

Dean insists, “This is different,” and Sam interrupts, “No, it isn’t!”

“You don’t under _stand_ —”

“Yeah, because you never _talk_ to me anymore!”

A pregnant silence, in which Dean Winchester has to make a decision he’s been putting off for a while now. Ever since he heard Cas talk about all those plans of his, ever since Dean decided that he will follow.

It’s not a decision process any longer. Has never been one, maybe.

“Look,” he hisses, “I’m part of this kind of—operation—now, and if I throw him out, he has _nowhere_ to stay, and they’re gonna _find_ him—”

“Who?”

“The Feds, the—”

“By all gods, DEAN!”

“— _everyone_ , his enemies, spies, every-fucking-one—”

Sam exclaims, “Dean, you have gone INSANE!” and that’s the moment Cas steps back into the tiny kitchen with them.

Eyes dart and meet.

Sam decides once more, “Dean, he has to leave,” and he sounds dark and sincere and Dean has never felt this betrayed, and Dean splutters, “Absolutely fucking _not_ ,” and, “Dad left ME in charge, so we do what _I_ say, and I say: he fucking STAYS! End of conversation!”

A polite, “I don’t intend to bother anyone,” which Dean shuts up with an outstretched arm and a, “You aren’t,” and imperative eyes back to his brother.

“Sam, I swear to god, do not blow this for us.”

Sam laughs, “‘Us’?” and his face lights up with madness, with fire and gasoline.

And he directs it at Cas next, who has been demure and quiet and invisible all these days now and who never did him any harm, didn’t even look at him.

Sam tells him, “I don’t know who the fuck you are, and frankly, I don’t care—but whatever you use him for, you better back the fuck off, or you will have to go through ME.”

Cas tries, “Okay—okay,” and attempts to lift his empty hands in a gesture of defeat; Dean can _tell_ , and Dean _knows_.

Sam force-pins Cas up against the wall instead.

With his raised hand alone.

The shelves rattle with the impact; dishes tumble and shatter on the floor.

Sam grits, “You don’t _move_ ,” and turns his squeezing hand just-so, and Cas’ body slips higher, presses harder back against the wall, “unless I _allow_ it.”

Dean pants, open-mouthed, and Cas looks very, entirely surprised.

Sam demands, “Are we clear?” and Cas nods. “Good. Now, Dean—”

And Dean shivers because those gold-tinted eyes fasten exclusively on him now.

“—you better tell me what _the fuck_ is going on.”

~

The explanations progressively calm Dean’s brother to a point where he agrees to letting Cas not only come off the wall but also sit at their table with them.

Sam mutters, “This is fucking crazy,” as his shaky fingers stuff his pipe. “You are fucking crazy people.”

Cas remarks, “We prefer ‘ambitious’,” and both brothers give him a nasty look, which he ignores.

Sam repeats, “Fucking _crazy_ ,” with emphasis, and sucks on his hastily-lit pipe with his eyes fixing the strange object that is Castiel.

Still dirty somehow after his bathroom visit, clearly still hungover and with a feverish glint in his eye. Dean can _hear_ those gears racing in that head. Gets addressed, now: “Your family is extraordinary, Dean.”

“Can we gag him, Dean?”

“Are you aware how rare human witches are? Rumor has it there haven’t been any in centuries.”

“Ten, to be exact,” informs Sam in a grunt, and Dean’s adrenaline keeps going strong with no end in sight.

“I—no, he—didn’t tell me that. Is—is that _true_ , Sam?”

“His powers are _invaluable_.”

“I’m not gonna fucking join your bastard crew, you fucking pig.”

“Hey now, no need for this kind of language.”

“What, allergic to the truth, old man?”

Dean tries, “Listen,” and physically shoves himself into the line of sight between the two, as the situation clearly demands. “Listen, let’s all calm down for a second, okay? Great. Sam, you don’t have to join anything—”

“Wow, thanks, Mom.”

“—and Cas, with all due respect, please leave my brother alone.”

Cas replies, “Of course,” the perfect diplomat and liar.

“And in case you didn’t get that, Sam: they’re not a bunch of criminals or anything. They’re fighting the good fight. The _real_ good fight, not like Dad.”

Sam snorts. His speech slurs and rasps fast with the help of his pipe. “Yeah, great, I bet the Feds totally give a fuck about that.”

“Federal law is one thing, but their agents can’t be anywhere at any given time to execute it, Samuel.”

Cas leans forward now, and Dean watches that disgust clawing itself back into his brother’s herb-slack face.

“This is where we come into play. Helping people. Hunting bad guys.”

Sam chuckles, blows his current lungful sideways. “Great, so, totally like our dad.”

Cas insists, “We aren’t bounty hunters. We are not in it for the money.”

Sam grins. “So, real _awful_ bounty hunters.”

Cas inhales deep, looks over at Dean, and sighs.

Dean shrugs. “Told you to leave him alone, didn’t I?”

~

They’re on their way to base. It’s a dry day, cloudy and matted, matching their spirits. Cas produced a pipe of his own, in no way as dignified as Sam’s; obviously in use for years and years, smooth and simple. Dean expertly ignores the pungent smell of whatever Cas put in there.

“Your brother sure is something, Dean Winchester.”

“People keep telling me that,” he jokes. “Try raising him and I promise that after all but five minutes, you’ll see that all he is is a fucking piece of work.”

“It must have been tough,” hums Cas. “A child yourself, raising a child.”

Dean says, “I guess,” and they keep walking.

Eventually, “Do you fight a lot?”

Dean’s hands are in his pockets. His boots hit the ground with precision. “Didn’t used to be like that.”

Cas inquires, pipe in the corner of his mouth, “What changed?” and Dean can’t reply right away.

“Us? Everything. I dunno.”

“Maybe you should try and talk to him.”

“Heh. Yeah, sure.”

“I’m sure that just like you, he’d prefer peace over being angry at each other just for the sake of it.”

“Wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

“I feel with this advice coming from someone who lost many-a siblings and regrets a lot of things, you can trust me on this one, Dean.”

They exchange a long look, and Dean doesn’t add more to the conversation, and Cas pulls him under his arm for the remainder of the walk.

~

“Wait.” Ash squints at him for a long, uncomfortable moment. “You don’t have one, do you?”

Dean balks. “I—they’re _tracing_ them, so—”

“Almighty,” groans Ash, spins in his chair to pull one drawer open with his booted foot, “fucking ’course they are, Einstein, but don’t _offend_ me, all right?” He produces a case; the contents clatter audibly. Ash squints at it, turns it in his hand, blows some dust off it. “Not letting anyone walk around fucking blindfolded. Not in this glorious day and age.”

Dean watches him tearing the container open, putting on safety goggles, finger-picking a delicate pair of tweezers from a pile of wire. Ash clears his sinuses and cracks his neck before he focuses, picks one of the tiny chips from their plastic home.

He holds it in front of his eye, turns it from side to side.

“Come look at this, kiddo.”

Dean ignores the lingo, pushes closer to get a close-up of the item in question.

“Hundred percent clean. No Fed-heads involved in any of this beauty, I guarantee you _that_.”

Barely visible lines. Billions of fractions of data—a masterpiece.

“Ten million languages,” Ash dwells. “Give or take.”

“And this goes into my…?”

“Walnut. Exactly.” Both of them keep staring at the thumbnail-sized piece of electronics. “Yeah, Daddy’s gonna put you right in that sweet sweet cortex cerebri, baby.”

“Wait, YOU?”

“Of course ME, bitch, am I not chrome enough for you or something? You think Doc could pull this shit off?”

“It’s fine,” interrupts Jo from Dean’s left, and Dean eyes her with remarkable doubt. She makes a face at him, insists, “He did it to all of us,” and Ash brags, “And did anybody die? NO, THEY DID NOT.”

Dean glares, his arms crossed tight. “And it’s… _safe_?”

Ash dismisses the question with a wave of his hand. “Safest thing in the galaxy.”

“How’d you get by without one up until now?”

Dean directs his defensiveness at Jo’s lack of imagination. “Our dad beheads people for money, you think I get to fucking _speak_ to anyone?”

“And your lil’ bro? The magick kid? He’s _gotta_ have one, I mean—” Ash begins disinfecting his hands, to Dean’s dismay. “—they don’t teach that shit in human, do they? Maybe Qurt-Klij, if you’re lucky, but, honestly, no way around a fucking speech chip, hombre.”

Dean insists, “He’s a smart kid,” and Ash snorts, unimpressed.

“‘Smart kid’ my ass. Bet they slam-dunked that thing in there the second they caught wind of him not having one. Like, fucking—feral little monkeys, _almighty_ —how—how are you two even ALIVE, man,” and Dean’s palms are damp, and he doesn’t know what to reply to that.

“He…he would have told me,” he manages, eventually. Looks up from his hands, searches their expressions for approval; doesn’t find any. “That he got one. Sam would have told me about it.”

Ash and Jo eye him with most pregnant looks.

“Anyway, doll.” Ash sighs as he snaps his gloves on, tosses the back of his too-long mullet back over his bare shoulder, out of the way. “Let’s fucking dance.”

~

Sam ignores both of them during dinner. Grabs his food and drags it to his room to eat in solitude.

Because Dean is an idiot and Cas’ words won’t leave him be, he lowers himself to knock on Sam’s door once the kitchen is back to normal and Cas said sure, I’ll be here, and Dean thinks he saw him already falling asleep.

No reply. Another knock.

“Fuck off.”

“It’s me, idiot.”

“Yeah, as I said: fuck off.”

The door isn’t locked. The room is dark but for the tiny lamp throning Sam’s crowded table; Sam’s used blankets and new-to-Dean’s-eyes quilts to cover the windows.

Sam glares daggers over his shoulder before turning his attention back to whatever he’s writing.

“You better clean up before it starts crawling.”

“I feel like that’s advice for your boyfriend.”

“He isn’t—Sam, can you, like, stop being a bitch for five goddamn minutes?!”

Sam turns towards him, has one foot up on his chair to cradle it tight against his chest and he spits, “Maybe, maybe not,” and tosses his pen onto his papers. “Since when did that become any of your concern again, huh?”

Dean grits, already-regretful, “Look, I don’t wanna fight,” and Sam doesn’t miss a beat to notify, “Sure look like it, though.”

Dean deep-sighs. Tries to shuffle closer, find somewhere to sit, but the floor is covered in god-knows-what. He surrenders, shrugs, slips his hands into his pockets due to a lack of idea what else to do with them.

“I’m _sorry_ , Sam, okay? For not asking you first. If he can crash here, and stuff.”

“‘And stuff’?” snaps Sam.

“For not cooking you dinner anymore. For staying gone all day. Ignoring you.”

Tense silence. A short, “And?”

“And that’s it, that’s what I’m apologizing for.”

Sam interrogates, sharper and meaner by the second, “And you’re sure this isn’t about something else?” and Dean warns him, “Hundred percent.”

Sam’s forehead lies in deep creases. His free hand not scratching at his knee twitches on the table, and he looks at it, distracted, comes back to Dean so fucking hurt and small.

Dean directs his eyes to his own feet.

“Sorry about that, too,” he hears himself say, quietly. “God, you know I am.”

Hears Sam’s shivery, “Great. Awesome.”

“Needed some fucking space after. I was going fucking _crazy_ , Sam!”

“You think I wasn’t?”

“No,” says Dean, “but I should have said something. Before things got—out of hand.”

“‘Out of hand’? You call what happened—you call that _things_ _getting out of hand_?!”

And Dean says, “It shouldn’t have happened at all,” and he doesn’t mean it, and he won’t be able to justify why he’d say it, later. But he says it. “It shouldn’t have, and I’m sorry.”

Sam is quiet, now.

Tells him, eventually, “Okay,” and Dean doesn’t need another incentive to leave the room.

Cas _is_ asleep when Dean slips under the blanket behind him. Stirs half-conscious then though, rasps, so very fucking sensible, “How’d it go?” and Dean pretends not to have heard him, or be asleep, or anything.

Fall asleep.

Fall asleep.

~

Dean Winchester does not enjoy hurting. Not that anyone would, of course, not this kind of hurt. The debilitating, the paralyzing kind. The one that chews on you and you can’t make it stop.

Sometimes, it’s enough to shove it away, ignore it so it gets bored with him. Busy himself. Let it pass. Recently: have a drink (or two).

Dean Winchester doesn’t know this yet, but the pain he feels right now will not leave him ever again.

It will idle, yes, and he might forget about it for lengths at a time, yes. But it _will_ stay with him.

Dean Winchester receives one of the precious beaming devices, receives a personal brief from Ash. Dean walks and talks and he feels, and it makes him angry that he does, that he _can_ , and he sips from the bottle in Cas’ locker, but that only makes him angrier.

Dean slips outside for a moment, to breathe, get his shit together. He’s supposed to train Jo today, give Bobby an update, check inventory and brief Max about what they still require to get this goddamn show on the road.

Garrison One has already become a part of him as much as he became a part of it, and he thought it would help. That it could push away this goddamn hole in him, that things would get…maybe not easier, but—different.

That he’d change, magically, into a better person. Someone he could be proud of.

Dean Winchester begins to realize how wrong he was, and it terrifies him.

“Brother.”

The recruit joins him. Dean clears his throat. “Hey.”

“You all right?” hums this guy by the name of Benny, puts his hand on him like Cas would, but he’s not Cas, so Dean shucks him off. “Sorry. I’m just worried.”

“Worry about yourself.”

“My poor heart can’t take it to see you this _maudlin_ ,” hums this barely-a-stranger, and Dean feels cold, and distant. “You’ll be with us again in no time, right? Through that device. Like you never left. So don’t be sad.”

Dean grunts, “I’m not fucking sad,” and Benny laughs, softly, without a hint of offense.

And he isn’t. It’s better now. Sam doesn’t look like he wants to kill both Dean and Cas, sits with them, makes conversation. A slow progress, but it’s something. Will get better, like it always does.

“Where’d you get these?”

“Can’t say. They were presents.”

Under Dean’s eyes, Sam lets Cas tug and prod at his heavy-ringed fingers. Dean sees those gentle fingertips graze and barely-touch those cruel, cruel hands, and Cas inquires relentlessly—about tattoos, and herbs, and Sam replies in short sentences, but sentences they are.

Such hushed replies with that new voice, cracking and breaking at the seams, never used on someone not-Dean, not-Dad. Except for his teachers, maybe. In languages Dean would understand, now.

Cas rewards with, “Beautiful,” those fingers still in his grasp, and Dean almost-smiles if only for the peace of it all.

~

“You don’t have to go,” tries Sam, quietly, from inside the door frame. Pipes up when Dean ignores him, keeps shoveling his meager collection of belongings into a duffle bag, right under the strict eyes of Cas. Insists, “Dad’s gonna kill you if he finds out.”

Dean asks him, “Why, you gonna snitch?” all sober and cold and he can’t help but feel satisfied by the desperation in that goddamn constipated little face. The clench in those overgrown hands.

“It’s a minor mission,” repeats Cas. “Minimal risk. I’ll get him back to you before you know.”

Sam frowns, all out of sense. Murmurs, “This is bullshit. Fucking suicide squad.”

“Civilians are getting slaughtered, Sam. Children.”

Dean cocks his loyal gun, scrutinizes it before he stuffs it with the others.

Cas continues, “And nobody is helping them.”

“Last time I checked, Yaw-Gahee required double rates of agents to keep them from eating Zuk-Leh every other day.”

“And are they not people? Are they not worthy of protection?”

“Just sayin’,” drawls Sam, arms crossed tight and hip cocked and mouth fucking sharpened for whoever dares to pay him attention, rile them up just for the sake of it. Dean’s tired of it. Fucking kid games. “Maybe you should prioritize _civilized_ people.”

“You don’t really mean that.”

Sam says, “I do,” at the same time Dean tells Cas, “No, he doesn’t.”

Dean warns, “Quit it,” and gets to his feet, shoulders his bag. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”

Sam spits onto the floor before he turns on his heels and leaves them behind.

Dean waits for the door to Sam’s room to bang before he turns towards his captain.

“We ready?”

Truth is: he’s fucking scared out of his goddamn mind.

And maybe he _will_ die out there. But maybe not.

Maybe he’ll save some lives, do something _good_ for once. And maybe Sam will have pulled his head out of his own ass by the time they return. Maybe this is what they need—what he needs. And he’s ready.

~

Barnes has been smirking at him for a while now. Long enough that he has to throw her a warning glare.

“Something on my face?”

She chuckles, takes another mouthful of grehm to chew on. Tells him through her teeth, “You’re gonna be fine, sweetheart. Relax.”

Dean’s jaw clenches.

Like she knows. Like she can be so sure.

Has already proven herself, like anyone else on this ship—except for Dean. Who’s first officer due to one of Cas’ whims, his ‘intuition’; because they’re goddamn friends and Cas gets food and a roof over his head from him.

Dean’s a goddamn nothing with a title and a pulse kicking him nauseous.

The garrison acquired this fighter jet through many questionable hands. Had all the work done, obviously, and Dean’s not a pilot but Garth had made an insistent point how Dean, please, absolutely not press this or that button unless he’d like to spend the last horrible seconds of his life watching the engine explode in his face.

He’d used his papa-to-child voice for that, and Dean hadn’t dared to inquire further.

As to: really?

And: can all ships do that?

So much shit he doesn’t know anything about. Is left wondering if that’s normal or makes him look even more of a feral child. Dad’s ship doesn’t have any of those buttons and switches…does it?

God. Dad.

Garth’s intercom-voice announces, “T minus five, kids. Get ready,” and Dean’s insides pull at him.

“That would be the time for you to get off your ass and do your thing,” murmurs Rufus, casual and passingly and quiet so probably nobody else hears, and Dean’s face flushes hot before it pales again.

And he takes a last breath, and he presses himself to a stand.

“Okay, guys, listen up.”

His voice reverberates firm in his throat. He hopes they can’t see his arm shaking as he activates the hologram. Dean points at the bright image flickering across the room.

“Drop-off is right here, 21:48, and pick-up will be here as well, 21:54. Not much ground to cover, no talking to or interfering with civilians. Our contact is gonna take care of that once we’re out. Our job is to take these assholes out—”

The image changes to surveillance footage of four individuals.

“—so that’s what we’re gonna do.”

Dean studies them again, together with his crew. Their features have been burned into his mind at this point but that horrible doubt of ‘what if’—we get the wrong people—won’t let him be.

You can do it. Just fucking _do_ it.

He feels goddamn sick. “Any questions?”

Pam raises her arm. “Yeah, sir.”

Dean squints at her. “Yah?”

“Are we doing Jahr’s for beer after?”

“Pamela, don’t tease him.”

“Why, captain, this is a serious inquiry and in the interest of the entire crew.”

Cas repeats, “Pamela,” with a stern look, but eventually adds, “Of course we will be.”

Dean’s not ship-sick. Doesn’t mind the shift in gravity or the sudden jerks, the odd, groaning sounds of metal bending and expanding and shrinking. And Dean _is_ grateful for the ill-placed gallows humor, for being teased and prodded and babied. Because it means they trust him, and they want him to be confident enough to not get everyone killed.

God, please.

If there’s anything…anyone.

Let everyone live. Let them survive tonight.

Intercom: “T minus one. Helmets, ladies and gentlemen.”

Four of them, four helmets, four suits. Four guns.

What if I die? What if I _die_? What will Sam do? What about Dad?

“Dean.”

Cas’ hand on his back and Dean stares at him, paralyzed, fucking small and young and incapable and,

“You can do this.”

The floor retracts and there’s the same city he learned inside-out, the same city he’s seen and seen and seen and he knows this place, he does, he _does_.

“Give them hell.”

They jump, they land. Cover and pointed gun and the first one’s down, silent; a distant gurgle that won’t reach Dean for days and he rows his arm to sign them to follow him, and they do.

Ducked and they sprint, he hears their boots beating the dry ground and Cas bellows for cover, so he does that, and everyone else does, and Dean turns his head just quick enough to see the second one falling to their knees, clear headshot and Cas urges, “Let’s move,” and they do, they do.

Building C9; Pam kicks the door down and there are laser shots and Dean goes in last, secures the exit and as he turns, he meets four pairs of eyes—all on one face, covering in the corner, in fear.

They look emaciated, chained to the wall, covered in their own dirt.

Dean runs forward, past countless others. His heart pounds louder than their screams and there’s Rufus, pressed to the wall, waving him through.

Dean rejoins them to the sight and sound of Barnes emptying a good three hundred rounds into what soon ceases to resemble a face.

She steps her boot off their chest, spits onto the mess.

Cas’ and Dean’s eyes meet fleetingly, shortly, before Dean gets distracted by the corpse at Cas’ feet.

The planet is quiet but for the children’s cries, for the rattling mess of a breath stuttering from Dean’s mouth.

Before he rushes, “Go, go, GO,” and he leads them back outside, back into position and there’s their ship, that tiny fucking goddamn falling-apart piece of shit and Dean climbs in last, and as he turns around for a last time, there are people storming the site—people running and crying and yelling names, words, and nobody pays the four of them any attention.

The floor closes underneath Dean’s boots and there’s that surge of them beaming off, away, and he nearly falls but for Cas’ immediate, strong grip on his arm.

Dean turns around, fucking flabbergasted.

“Did…?”

And Cas just says, “Yes,” and Rufus cajoles, and Dean is engulfed in Pam’s arms and their helmets knock against each other with how he’s getting hugged and crushed and lifted off the ground.

“Phenomenal!” cheers Garth, ringing double via intercom and from the cockpit he’s so loud.

Everybody gets tossed over and about with that celebratory looping and Dean gets crushed between his crewmates, and he laughs, everyone laughs. Manically, fucking _soaring_.

Barnes presses a big kiss to Dean’s cheek as soon as those helmets come off and Cas hangs around his neck immediately, hugs him so tight Dean’s gotta push him off eventually to catch his breath. Rufus is still laughing.

“Gods,” pants Dean. “Oh my fucking god.”

Cas beams, “I told you.”

~

First thing Dean sees upon exiting the ship is his little brother, getting to his feet.

Holy crap. When did that kid grow this _tall_?

With Sam’s endless legs running like that, they’re in each other’s arms nearly immediately. Dean tightens his grip so much it hurts, just like Sam. Can’t think or feel anything, not really. His eyes are wet when they part.

Sam accuses, “Fucking idiot,” and Dean grins at him, tells him, “Good to see you too, Sammy.”

Cas intervenes, “You’re not supposed to be here. How did you—”

“Basically threatened us at gunpoint,” says Max, raising his arms in defeat. “Or, uh—finger point? Magick point?”

Bobby grumbles, “Put that boy on a goddamn leash next time,” as he leans in to get his share of the welcome-back hugs.

Dean laughs.

He still can’t fucking believe it.

He did it. He did it!

“My friends,” hollers their captain, loud and proud and with his hand firm on Dean’s back, “tonight, we celebrate!”

The crew cheers.

Sam inquires, “How many did you kill?” but all Dean has to offer is a, “What?” as he gets pulled away by the garrison.

~

There’s that voice again, same question: “How many kills, Dean?”

Dean turns towards the source, and that’s a true effort with how crowded the bar is.

Finds his little brother right next to himself, propped up against the bar and juggling both a drink and his pipe. His eyes are dark and he’s goddamn beautiful, and Dean’s heart thuds all stupid.

“You’re too young for that,” he says, snatches the glass out of that damp hand to put it to his own mouth instead.

Sam pressures, “How many,” like it’s important and not important at all. The only thing he can relate to, the only question that comes to mind, maybe.

They’re so close Dean can smell him. That funky scent of herbs and perfume and god-knows-what. Dean feels that much more drunk with it.

Murmurs, “Uh,” and, “one,” like he’s the younger one of them, fingers at the now-empty glass, elbow on the counter and their hips knock against each other as someone shoves into Dean’s side; they keep it that way. Dean doesn’t have it in himself to tear his eyes away from Sam’s. “Headshot. Right after we landed.”

“Only one?”

Dean grins. Grins harder at that mischievous little smirk pulling at that almost-grownup face. “You blackmail my men into letting you into our goddamned base and this is what you wanna try an’ tease me about?”

Dimples, for real now. God, it’s been ages. “And Cas?”

Dean tells him, “Two, smartass,” and gladly accepts the drink that gets pushed into his hand, doesn’t notice the body coming after it, doesn’t recognize it’s Barnes until after they kissed.

His eyes pop in suddenly-sober horror.

Pam flirts, “Meant to do that earlier, but it didn’t feel appropriate,” and Dean’s hand is on her arm to push her off and his mouth rushes, “Sammy, wait,” but Sam’s already gone, forces through the crowd and away from him.

He grits, “Goddammit, Pam,” and she’s drunk herself, giggles, oblivious.

“What, did I interrupt something?”

He shoves her off, tells her, “Don’t fucking do that again!” and she snaps, “Gods! Relax,” and there are eyes on them now but Pam scurries off, scowling, and Dean is left behind red-hot behind his ears.

He turns around, faces the bar; dry-mouthed. Wipes his hand across his face. Orders another two drinks. (It’s all on Cas tonight. Dean can only pray that that tab will be taken up eventually. Would be a fucking shame to lose this spot, too.)

Eyes to the crowd. Sam’s probably gonna be tall enough to stick out in a place like this, soon. In another moment of Dean not looking, not paying attention.

Dean makes his way across the crammed space. Gets elbows and shoulders and hugs and almost-kisses; spills half his drinks but gets free shots left and right, doesn’t matter. His shirt is soaked by the time he’s spotted his brother.

New drink in his hand, Cas’ arm around his shoulder. Seated nearly in that lap they’re so close, both in deep conversation with the rest of the table.

Dean hesitates. Just stands there, forgotten—stupid.

Goddamned stupid. “Officer,” hollers Ellen from across the table, “any chance we can help you with those?”

All heads turn towards him and Dean stammers, “Uhm,” and Cas reacts immediately—pulls at Sam and scoots over and everyone else does, too, of course.

“Won’t you join us?” cheers his captain, and he’s smiling so sincere with Sam’s pipe between his teeth and Dean’s brother peering up at Dean from underneath the bulk of his arm, the friendly beckoning of his hand.

Dean gives Sam a stern look before he takes up on the offer, slips in next to him, into the meager, opened-just-for-him spot.

And he puts Sam’s drink down in front of him and tells him, “There you go,” and Sam informs him, “I’m good,” and takes a demonstrative sip from his already-there glass.

Dean’s brother has his legs crossed in a futile effort to take up less space. All it does, really, is reveal more of his bare thigh that Dean’s own is now pressed against. That shines like a beacon in Dean’s peripheral, almost as bright as Sam’s hand on Cas’ thigh.

Dean takes a generous gulp from his drink, elbows on the sticky, crowded table.

A hand on his shoulder, and it’s too soft to be Sam’s.

Cas leans forward to address him, smile at him. “We were just talking about you.”

Jody pipes up, “You’re _always_ talking about him,” and the round laughs, Cas included.

“Talking about how great of a job you did out there, Dean. No, really,” he insists once Dean tries to wave the praise away, “you were marvelous. Leadership, execution, formations—like you never did anything else!”

“Ah,” Dean tries again, violently blushing and in hopes that the shitty lighting of this place will not give him away, “not that big of a deal. Like, you can’t tell me that this stuff was—that it was _hard_ ,” and he scoffs, but Cas’ face sobers, straightens.

“Going out there, with us? Putting bullets into people’s heads, Dean? If you ask me: yes, that shit is tough. That shit _is_ hard. And you did it.” Cas gets a hold of his glass, raises it for a toast. “You fucking did it, boy.”

Commotion and laughter, because Cas heaves himself off the bench now, climbs the table.

Stands atop of it, tall and firm and with his arm in the air, the drink held high.

“EVERYONE,” he hollers, loud enough to be heard over the music, the manifold conversations.

Cas extends his arm forward, towards the crowd.

“LET US DRINK TO OUR FIRST OFFICER!”

Nobody is looking at Dean, and that’s all that saves him. Cas doesn’t have to spell his name out loud. Everyone knows who he is talking about.

“HUZZAH!”

The garrison, everyone—joins in. Cheers and cajoles and they drink in unison, and Dean empties his entire drink down his gullet and it’s good, it’s real fucking good and yes, he did it. He did this.

Cas’ way back down is an obvious struggle, and the parts of their table not actively helping him laugh at him, tease him with most endearing bullshit. Cas seems oblivious to it all, just happy and floating and he settles back into his spot, and he pulls Sam’s legs across his own just so he can lean in closer to Dean, can wrap his arm around the back of the bench (and Sam) to place his hand on the back of his neck.

Strokes him there, not too hard like the others would (or did, earlier), and his head lolls all high and drunk and happy as he locks eyes with Dean, and Dean grins with his throat all tight.

He tells him, “Thank you,” but maybe too quiet to be heard, because he can’t hear whatever Cas tells him back, can only see that mouth moving, forming words, and they don’t reach him.

Dean loses track of how many drinks, what kind of drinks. Floats in and out of conversations and his throat feels hoarse soon enough, somewhere under the numbness of ethanol taking over his body.

In a clearer moment, and only the gods know how long they’ve been in here, drinking, celebrating—in a clearer moment, Dean Winchester notices that his hand is touching bare skin, and that his legs are heavy and warm.

Dean looks into his lap to find Sam’s legs draped across it. His own hand on the inside of that thigh, thumbing all innocent, thoughtless. Finds himself spun to his right, twisted and turned uncomfortably so he can listen to the others better, crammed tight against Sam, against Cas.

Dean swallows, hard. Feels a hand between his shoulder blades, hidden and bony and warm, like it’s been there forever.

He tugs on that nothing-leg just to feel it. Gets Sam’s attention for that, a half-blink of those drowsy eyes and a gentle rub of that thumb over his back, and Dean drifts, and he shivers, and his mouth feels numb.

Can feel his cock fattening immediately, desperate with the realization, and knows Sam feels it, too.

Just looks at him from underneath his lashes until there’s Cas’ thumb edging into the picture, to Sam’s cheek, to get Sam’s attention.

And that works. Makes Sam turn his head just-so until Cas can thread the pipe back between Sam’s lips, still wet with Cas’ spit, and Sam can take another hit.

The pipe goes right back into Cas’ mouth afterwards, and Cas’s dopey-smiley face tilts for Dean, finds his eyes.

Cas’ fingers tickle up the back of Dean’s neck (has it been there all this time?) until there are goosebumps, and Dean has to close his eyes for a hot second.

Hears, distantly, “You all right?” and that’s Cas, so Dean nods. “Feelin’ good?” and he hums his approval for that, too.

If they were alone, he’d bury his face in Sam’s nape. In Sam’s hair. Would put his lips on him there until he’d whimper, until he’d have to shove him off or say something, anything, Dean’s name.

But they’re not. Are they?

Dean’s eyes slip open to find Sam’s, immediately. And maybe it’s all right there, right in his face and it screams, because Sam looks at him the same way. Pained and longing and distant, hesitant.

Sam blows his current lungful from his thinly-pressed lips, puts one hand on the table and takes the other off Dean’s back to press against the back of the bench instead so he can struggle to his feet.

Announces, “I gotta piss,” and Dean’s gonna come fucking undone.

So easy not to say a single word, nobody’s paying attention anyway; catch up to his brother in the overloaded room, wring a hand around that hip and hold on, lets himself get tugged along just as much as he presses on, hurries, because it can’t be too soon, can’t be fast enough.

It’s a miracle that the bathroom is unoccupied, and that Dean manages to lock the door behind them.

Is plastered to Sam’s back immediately, clings to him and bites his mouth into that daring plane of skin between shoulder and neck and groans for that helpless, gritty gasp of his brother as he yanks that tunic up those hips, as Sam’s barely getting his hands to steady himself against the tiled wall.

Hears, “Fuck, fuck,” and, “please,” and feels himself leaking into his pants, jams his fingers into that heated, bare cleft of ass.

Feels Sam pushing back into the touch, tilting his hips back to offer himself right.

Feels him wet, here, and whines deep in his throat.

Pleads, “Sammy,” as someone’s fist bangs on the door. Can’t speak or think and hears someone hollering, “Hey, no fucking in there!” and gets his dick out, slips two fingers up Sam’s cunt.

Adds a third, jerks his own cock while he does. Still stuck chest-to-back with his brother but he looks down, between them—the fatless mounds of Sam’s ass and Dean’s hand working between them, and the flash of his leaky cock in his own fist.

More knocking and Sam whimpers, “Dean,” and Dean comes, Sam’s bratty hand fisting back into his hair and he convulses, shoots messily over his hand and Sam’s ass. Groans against Sam’s neck and feels him bucking, too, hears him gasping and his hand working his own dick, probably, because Sam’s quaking with the movement and Dean feels him tensing and coming, too.

Feels him fucking snatching up around his fingers and grinds his knuckles in there even harder for it; pulse and clench and gods he’s wet, fucking sopping with it and Dean’s goddamn boneless, dissolves and deflates and he’s catching his breath now, bowed over the shivery line that is Sam.

Silence but for the complaints from outside, the celebration still roaring. For their breath and the distant drips from within the pipes.

Sam makes an unwilling sound, so Dean retracts his fingers. Helps Sam cleaning the worst wetness from his ass and lower back before he pulls his tunic back in place, covered up and Dean feels like he should say something, anything, but nothing comes to mind.

Sam turns around and maybe Dean should kiss him, now. Should hold him and tell him god fucking dammit I am the dumbest motherfucking idiot in this entire solar system, please don’t go, don’t leave me, but he doesn’t.

Sam fixes himself in the mirror, pumps RK2KI from the nearby dispenser to wash their come off his hands. Asks him, “You comin’?” all small and far-away and Dean hums something approving, he thinks.

Nausea overtakes him instantly upon the door opening. Stares out there in horror, fucking scared that anyone—the garrison? Cas?—knows what happened, what just happened, what they _did_.

But Sam pushes his way through the people and all they have to complain about to Dean is, “Fucking MOVE or I will fucking piss on your leg, man!”

Dean quakes, feels pale. Steadies himself against a nearby wall and hears an immediate, “Hey, you okay?” and a hand on his lower back and he mumbles, “Yeah, yeah, just a second,” and he washed his hands as well but he swears you can still smell it on him. Taste it on him.

Gods.

Dean rejoins his crew at the table. Slips back in, next to Cas, who makes brisk conversation with Rufus while Sam’s truly in his lap now, nursing a new drink, again, and barely meeting Dean’s eyes.

A fresh glass finds Dean’s palm atop the table. He brings that to his mouth, drinks.

Sam worms their hands together in secret, sandwiched between Cas’ and Dean’s thighs, and Dean holds on to that for as long as he can.

~

“—And the laaaaaand grew daaaark!”

Sam pants, “Remind me to murder you two,” but does keep hauling the two of them through the deserted streets.

Dean and Cas laugh and start up another song.

Dean never wants this night to end. Wants it to spin on forever, never leave him. Just being happy—Sam, Cas, his friends. Drinking, feeling good, feeling warm. Sam’s hands on him.

They make it home, all thanks to Dean’s little brother and the surprising strength of his legs.

Dean meets the floor shoulder-first; his head thuds down hard, after. He laughs. “Shit.”

Sam complains, “Not gonna fucking carry you to bed,” but does that very thing for Cas, who was somehow still able to keep holding on to Dean’s brother.

Dean slur-laughs, crawls after them. It’s not far to his futon and Sam is sliding Cas off himself and down by the time Dean made it. Dean places a quick tickle to the back of Sam’s knee which causes him to yelp and collapse, much to the amusement of the other two drunks.

Sam whines, “Asshole,” and kicks after Dean, who laughs and helps him pull his boot off his foot.

There’s a passing note on Dean’s lizard brain how Sammy twists and turns without paying attention to how bare he is under his too-short goddamn tunic. How he’s bare-assed on Dean’s futon and too high and comfortable and tired to give a single fuck.

Cas hums a home-noise, buries his face in Sam’s clothed chest. Struggles with his boots so Dean helps him out with that, too. Throws himself atop the two, after, and gets himself some pained laughter, labored breath.

Sam moans, “You’re heavy,” and Dean laughs; tastes the combined breath of the three of them they’re mushed together so close.

His arms hold on to both of them. His head droops, too fucking exhausted. Poor, buried Sam keeps struggling.

“C’mon,” grumbles Cas, pushes and pulls, “you get in the middle.”

“No,” Sam whines, “I’m not sleeping here,” but is already caught between them, settled well and tight and Dean’s nose finds the back of Cas’ hand where he wanted to press his face into that hair.

As is, curls around Sam’s back and they fit so well, so fucking perfect and Cas’ arm drags down, encircles both brothers and stays on Dean’s hip, yanks him close and Sam closer to himself.

A clothed leg pushes between Dean’s shins; Cas’ thumb hooks into the belt loop of his pants, holds him where he is.

A contented sigh. Dean can’t trace whose mouth it came from.

Dean blacks out immediately.

~

Awakening comes with overtones of heartburn, of a mean headache.

Also comes with a rumble in his chest, faint pressure-comfort between his legs.

Dean slurs half-present to getting the back of his neck kissed. Pushes his ass out on sheer instinct for the warm-hard dick grinding into his crack.

Croaks, “Sam?” and reaches behind himself, blind and still fucking intoxicated, and the hair he gets a hold of is neither long nor is it fine, or sleek, and so he splutters, “Shit,” and, “Cas, hey.”

Has to push the guy off because all he has to offer is a hum and a nice drift of the heel of his hand along Dean’s hard-on.

Dean gets up on one elbow and the world spins, and he whisper-rushes, “Dude,” and Cas laughs, “What?” and Dean has to _pick_ that hand off his cock.

Flushed, flustered: “Where’s Sam?”

“Dunno? Bathroom? His room?” And Cas adds, gently, carefully, “It’s fine, Dean,” and would have grabbed back between Dean’s legs if Dean wasn’t covering himself.

“Dude, cut it out! I mean it!”

Cas tells him, “Apologies,” and places his hand on Dean’s hip instead. Looks at him all drowsy, disheveled, still half-asleep himself. “Wanna be big spoon instead?”

Dean’s captain eventually gets placated with being left behind to sleep off his frenzy; Dean hears him snoring once he’s done in the bathroom, back on the corridor.

Can’t remember when he took off his pants, but oh well.

Knuckles on Sam’s door. “Sam?” Nothing. “You in there?” Nothing.

Dean lets himself in. The room is blacked-out, silent. Dean peers through the darkness; Sam’s bed is empty, the sheets crumpled into one messy heap atop of it. A piece of paper, Dean thinks, on top. He wades through the mess on the floor to get to it, pick it up. It reads:

CHILL

I’M YOU-KNOW-WHERE

YOU NOSY BITCH

Dean snorts, creases the note in his palm and tosses it across the room before he leaves.

He makes his way back into the kitchen, aka his room. Crawls back into bed with Cas, eventually, because there’s nowhere else to go and at least it’s warm here.

Cas lets himself get pulled with his back to Dean’s chest, smacks his lips full and once, hand on top of Dean’s, and that’s that.

No idea how long they’re out like this. All Dean does know is that this time, he wakes to the creak of the front door, and that he slurs something out loud and there’s the noise of a laser gun safety being thumbed off and fucking hell is he awake _now_.

Throws himself across Cas and rushes, “Nonononono, Dad, it’s all right, he’s a friend, he’s a FRIEND!” and has his arms up and nearly pisses himself with relief once John lowers his gun, finally. Squints, still, while Cas stirs alive underneath Dean, murmuring nonsense, and Dean pants with the exertion, the fucking disappointment hitting him square in the fucking face.

John orders, “Talk,” and, upon the two figures to his feet squirming and detangling, he corrects, “Get fucking dressed, first. Gods.”

~

Cas vows, “It’s an honor, sir,” while Dad death-glares at him from atop his steaming cup of coffee.

“I know you,” he decides, finally. “You’re that sect leader from Plur-Mah’Ghan.”

“I—now—that’s…” Cas straightens himself, clears his throat. “There seems to be a misunderstanding.”

“Yeah, no,” hears Dean, stiff-necked over his share of coffee running through its filter, “I _remember_ you. That Novak kid. You were with your brother. What’s-his-name… Satan?”

“‘Lucifer’, actually, but, uhm, sir—”

John interrupts, “No, I’m not gonna let you speak, ’cause I’m not interested in your filthy little lies,” and it’s low and menacing and Dean’s never heard Cas this quiet, this subdued.

This is a fucking nightmare.

“Dad, give him a break, okay?”

“If this is your taste in friends, it is questionable.” John glares at him, next. Watches him sitting down between them, taking up the buffer-space. “You better spill the beans right now, Dean. I’m not in the mood to be bullshitted.”

So, Dean tries, “Look,” and wrings his hands around his cup while Cas still objects to touching his own. Holds onto the edge of the table instead. Grazes Dean with his look for a second and Dean finds true discomfort there. “Look, Dad—it’s complicated.”

“When _isn’t_ it complicated,” sighs Dad.

Dean struggles with his words long enough for Cas to regain composure, for Cas to spill: “He’s my first officer,” and both John’s and Dean’s eyes bulge wide for that.

Dad inquires, “Excuse me?” and Dean rushes, “I, I’m, Dad, it’s not, uh—”

“And he’s the best goddamn man on my entire team, sir.”

An uneasy silence. Dean feels his non-existent breakfast rising for a second try.

Dad turns on his chair now, faces Cas for real.

Narrows his eyes again, puts down his coffee.

“You better talk nothing but the truth now, sect leader, or that ‘first officer’ of yours is gonna watch you get skinned alive.”

~

Dad joins him in Sam’s room. There are clear audible signs of Cas still being alive out there and Dean throws an accusing look at his father, who has his sleeves rolled up and bends down to help to throw Sam’s shit into the box under his arm.

“What?”

“You can’t keep doing this.”

“What?” Dad frowns, stops halfway through his next pick-and-drop.

“Embarrassing me,” hisses Dean, knee-deep in dry-ass, falling apart leaves and petals. “Fucking threatening my captain—I’m not a kid anymore, Dad!”

Dad snorts.

“I’m twenty-one and you’re being ridiculous.”

“You wanna put your life on the line for that junkie, but _I’m_ the ridiculous one? Sure. Sure. Dean,” John tries, “I’m just trying to be responsible, all right? I just want what’s best for you.”

“Then fucking let me live my life,” and crams a heap of Sam’s spell books into the suitcase with emphasis.

They stare each other down for a dangerous moment.

Dad breaks. Scoffs, tells him, “You’re being ridiculous,” and Dean adds for consideration:

“Your other kid is out there, fucking _mind-bending spoons_.”

Dad frowns, plucks a new handful of his son’s belongings off the filthy ground. Thinks for a moment before he states, “This is different, Dean.”

Dean gets to his feet, hauls the baggage along with him. “No, Dad,” he decides, “it’s just that I’m not him.”

He meets his captain in the kitchen, kneeling in front of a box full of carefully-wrapped plates and cups. Gets smiled at from down there and has to tell him, “These, uh, they’re not ours. They stay,” and Cas deflates only a little bit, sighs but keeps up his smile.

“Do you want me to leave?”

“What? No.” Dean adds the suitcase to the already-there lot by the door. “Why? You wanna?”

“I don’t want to be a bother,” he says, quietly, sheepishly, still on his knees, and Dean huffs.

“We’re not gonna leave you behind, Cas,” he promises. “No freaking way.”

Cas’ bare, dirty feet are neatly tucked under his ass, the baggy fit of his ancient-looking pants. His hands are strong, lie flat on his thighs and tattoos peek at the world from underneath those sleeves, from the wide neckline of Cas’ falling-apart shirt.

And Cas smiles, gently—in the way people do when they don’t believe you, but want to.

“Okay.”

~

“Good news.” Dad’s voice booms over the roar of the engine. He turns his head to speak to them, halfway. “Might have found something semi-steady this time. Whole-ass property. I think you boys are gonna like it.”

Dean tells him, honestly, “Great,” and Sam bleats, “On a scale of one to ten: how ramshackle?”

Ribs against Dean’s elbow, a prissy glare.

Dad gets them into the air as he thinks. Decides, eventually, “A four. Uh—five.”

Sam’s snort gets muted by the swoosh of them beaming.

It’s a quiet flight. Sam is pissed that they touched his stuff without his knowledge (“You can’t put these together, oh my GOD, you’re so stupid!”) and Dean is busy memorizing the route.

He leans to his side to peer into the back of the ship. “You all right there, Cas?”

A weak, “Yes.”

“You need anything?”

“He’s a grown fucking man, Dean,” grumbles Dad. “He can talk for himself.”

Dean clicks his tongue, considers his father with an annoyed look.

“What?”

“How about you focus on flying, _Dad_?”

“Just sayin’,” grunts John, more defensive now. His hands are tight on the wheel. “A real man shouldn’t have you mother-henning around them twenty-four seven.”

“If you’re so busy yapping, maybe _I_ should take the fucking wheel!”

“Oh, you think so?”

Sam warns, bored, “Guys,” and Dean kicks at their father’s knee—and gets his foot grabbed, his boot pulled off and tossed into the back. “Please, can we not crash and die today? Thanks.”

Dean huffs, annoyed but silent for now, and Dad keeps his eyes up front, too, so that’s that.

The journey isn’t the worst they’ve had. Mild turbulences, a couple of asteroid fields. Sam kicks the back of Dean’s seat for what in sum does not even surmount ten minutes.

Several light-jumps and hours and snacks later, Dad finally announces, “There she is,” and everyone’s eyes focus on the planet coming into view—tiny, orange.

“Oxygen?” asks Dean.

“Civilized?” yawns Sam.

“All you could ask for,” beams John, directing them down into orbit. “Even got trees.”

~

“I hate it,” not a surprise. “Who sucked your dick for you to buy _this_ piece of crap?”

Dad chastises, “Samuel,” and, firmer, “A gift. It was a _gift_ , to _me_ , from a former client.”

Sam announces, “Ew,” and Dean kicks him in the back of his knee as he passes him; unfortunately doesn’t make him fall or stumble.

Hears, “Bitch,” behind him and laughs, doesn’t laugh anymore once his own knee gives, no body contact, and him and the three boxes on his arms crash to the floor.

“DAD,” he hollers, “SAM IS USING MAGICK ON ME AGAIN!”

Distant: “Sam, stop bewitching your brother!”

Sam yells a colorful variation about them being welcome to kiss his ass in southern wrop’T’ch’lat.

With Cas’ help, Dean gathers himself and their belongings off the stairs and together, they climb up the twisting steps, enter through the wide-open front door.

Sam’s already passing them again, rolling his eyes with his mouth all disgusted like a ‘I knew it’, and Dad is looking around, hands in his hips, nodding to himself—like he did a good job. Like this is nice, and he is contented with it.

Turns, smiles brightly. “So? What do you say?”

Dean force-smiles and tells his father, “Great. Great place, Dad.”

“Right? High up, always a good vantage point.” Dad goes to the window, leans on the windowsill—only for it to break off under his weight, for him to lose balance.

He straightens himself immediately, though. Wipes his hands on his thighs, clears his throat upon meeting Dean’s and Cas’ doubtful eyes.

“Needs a little work, here and there,” he admits.

Cas supplies, “Fresh coat of paint,” and Dean ‘accidentally’ steps on his foot.

Sam passes them with a pile of boxes in his arms, practically sprinting.

“Dibs on the last room to the left!”

“What?!”

Dean runs after him, balks in anger once he takes in the size of the room. Turns to Sam to tell him, “You’re not serious,” and Sam lets their shoulders meet when he walks past him.

“Wanna bet?”

“I will MURDER YOU IN YOUR SLEEP!”

Cas steps in, ignoring (or oblivious to) the fight. Announces, carefree, “Oh,” and, “spacious,” and Dean grumbles more death threats under his breath.

He’s not gonna carry another single fucking box for that goddamn heathen.

Dean settles with the next-best option, opposite to Sam’s pick. Next to the bathroom, which is always a plus. Three boxes and that’s all his belongings right there.

Cas slips in next to him, carefully places his one barely-filled duffle bag atop of the pile (if you can call it that). Steps back so they can both look at it, feast upon its non-existent glory. Dean is pretty sure that Cas finds beauty in it either way.

What’s even in there? The picture of his daughter, his pipe…maybe a gun? A knife? Scissors to cut his hair and nails with?

“We’re gonna get you some clothes,” sighs Dean.

“Why? I don’t need—”

“Cas, for the love of god: shut up.”

And so Cas settles back into silence. Flirts back out, eventually, upon Sam huffing a little too loud for it to not attract his pity.

Dean crosses his arms anew, eyes grazing upon the hideous view in front of him.

“‘Here and there’,” he sighs, already exhausted.

~

He picks up bits and pieces along the way, upon him squirreling from room to room, taking stock, making plans. Scarfes down food Cas passes him, not looking, not caring. Dusk settles and he’s where they’ll need a table. Big one, so everyone can sit and eat without knocking their elbows together.

His own hand in his hair is joined by Dad’s. “I’ll get dinner started. You want a beer?”

“Uh, sure,” he slurs, disoriented, his eyes trailing his father. He receives the bottle and his body reminds him of last night’s bender being too close of a fucking experience. He’s not gonna put the damn thing down, though.

The house is quiet now. Wind howls outside the leaking windows; hot-dry climate and with Dean’s luck it’s not gonna go down much at nighttime. Distant rustle and clatter, muffled conversation—over in Sam’s room.

Dean blinks, tired as all hell, bent over his papers.

“Looks important,” comments Dad who pulls one of the knives from his boot to cut the laid-out produce with. “You’re going all-in?”

“Kinda. I dunno.” Dean scratches through his hair, frowns. He begins to sort the papers, his sketches, his notes. “Jus’ thinking. But—”

“Hm?”

“You sure it’s permanent? This time?”

Dad half-turns. Looks apologetic and says, quietly, “I mean, I hope so.” Tries half a smile, and Dean feels ten years old again. “You know how it is, Dean.”

And Dean replies, “Huh,” and, “I guess,” and sips more lukewarm beer.

~

“And this…?”

“Goes here, obviously.”

“Can you kids do your goddamn games over in Sam’s room or something? Fuck off,” and with that, Dean hauls the first half of their supply haul atop the table despite the already-there mess.

Some screws fly and fall to the floor and Sam bellows his immediate, “DEAN,” while Cas is the one to bend down, pick up the stray parts.

Dean hisses, “Suck my dick, princess,” and Sam snarls, “You wish,” as he gathers his ridiculous tool, gets trailed by Cas who throws Dean an apologetic look with his hands full of screws.

“Uh, do you need…?”

“Fine, Cas.”

“All right.” And with that and a last glimpse of that smile, the door to Sam’s room closes behind them.

Dean sighs, frowns. Wipes sweat from his forehead and bounds towards Dad (who officially doesn’t need any help, of course).

Dean hates to say it, but he hopes Dad is gonna leave again, soon.

The man is fucking high maintenance.

Dean begins to gain an understanding of why his brother might be the way he is.

There’s only so much time in a day—for renovations, purchasing supplies, babying Dad, babying Sam, babying Cas. Dean falls into bed face-first most early-evenings lately, fucking done with being alive. Cas tells him: no worries. Beams into base regularly, frequently, but they’re keeping it low. Word has gotten around, new recruits—it’s all kinda messy. Another fucking site in Dean’s life. Great. Just great.

Dean joins him, from time to time. Gets his updates, does some training; nothing major. He’d give his fucking leg for another gig. But that’s not something you can talk about with people.

Dad sighs, turns towards Sam. “Would it hurt you to put on some actual clothes?”

“What?” Sam frowns, puts his fork down to pull his flimsy top even further down; exposes his entire tit for the dinner table. “Does it _distract_ you, Daddy?”

Dean barks, “Sam,” mainly because he isn’t sure if Dad knows about the piercing yet, and Sam’s arm is solid as a tree when he shoulders into it, but he does let his top snap back into place, makes a bored face at Dean and resumes eating.

“You’re gonna catch a cold, running around like that.”

“Ohmygod,” groans Sam, slamming his cutlery down once more, “it’s like eighty fucking degrees, give me a BREAK.” Informs, “Cas doesn’t think it’s too cold, do you?”

“What? Oh.” Cas’ conscience returns from whatever plane of existence he found at the bottom of his clean-licked plate. He smiles as he holds it out for a refill, and Dean rolls his eyes and helps him out, of course. “Yes, it’s very warm on this planet, isn’t it? I almost forgot what that’s like. Thank you so much, Dean.”

“Welcome.”

“See? It’s _warm_ , Dad, and I’m sweating my balls off. So get us aircon or shut up about my clothing choices. Your fucking call.”

Dad glares at his youngest in silence, keeps eating, and Sam looks obviously pleased with himself—with getting away, being a goddamn obscenity.

Gods. Can Dean have just one quiet evening? Ever?

“When did he become like this?”

Dean snorts, looks over to a puzzled Dad, clueless in front of the heap of dirty dishes.

“Like…was it something I did?” he asks, frowning, sincere. “Should I have been doing something different?”

Dean sneers, again.

“What? What is it?”

“Nothin’,” confides Dean. “Welcome to hell.”

Sam wants a new microscope for his birthday. Brings wild animals home with him and requests for them to stay. Keeps them hidden when that doesn’t get him the results he wants. There are some tough fighting matches between Dad and him, like in the old days. Dean retracts himself from the house for the matter of time it all takes. Cas joins him if the other two are getting too loud for his likings.

If Dean had an older brother, maybe he would have been like Cas—soft and wise and know-it-all, without the entitled bite Sam’s somehow acquired and cultivated. Always has a smile for him, a hand or an arm for him to hide underneath, feel safe underneath. Dean loves the attention. Loves that Cas thinks he’s special, and that he takes Dean seriously. Hangs from Dean’s lips and vows, “Yes, Dean,” and, “Of course, Dean.” It’s easy, with Cas. Despite Dean being a social hermit. Despite Dean being distant and maybe more of a bitch than he’d like to admit. But Cas laughs, and Cas smiles, and Cas forgives. Always.

“You ever want it?”

There’s a certain shade to Cas when he’s smoked his herbs—found a source here the first night and it’s a frequent habit and Dean’s almost used to the smell now. Almost.

Lifts his lip some with his snarl upon Dean’s clueless laugh, his, “What?”

It’s a hot day out. All days seem to be hot out with this goddamn place.

“Y’know, sex,” hums Cas, pipe between his teeth and he’s sweated through his shirt, and the shadow they’re standing in doesn’t aid much with Dean’s situation.

Dean chuckles, “What?” and, “Not really, I guess.”

“You telling me you’re not thinking about it?”

“Not _all_ the time,” he confides, smiling in conspiracy under the heavy weight of Cas’ stark-blue eyes.

“We should get you laid.” Another hit, shoulder leaning against the brick wall; mirroring Dean’s position. “Need to get it out of your system sometime. Gonna get you sick otherwise, the build-up and stuff.”

Dean laughs, “‘Build-up’?” and pretends not to notice Cas’ hand draping itself over his hip, his thumb grazing along the barely-there slit between shirt and pants. “What, you’re a doc now?”

“It’s common knowledge,” explains Cas, all matter-of-fact, grinning stupidly, hopelessly.

They finish up their market trip. Dean ends up with a huge sack of goods thrown over his shoulder, his captain dangling from his hand, shuffling along. Cas stops them in front of an odd-looking stand, tugs on Dean until he relents.

“What’s that?”

“Frozen water, young man.”

Dean frowns, observes. “Can you eat it?”

“Why yes,” the saleslady chirps, “the children love it.”

“Why would you _freeze_ water?”

Cas tries, “Because then it’s cold?” and the lady cheers, “Exactly, exactly! The perfect treat for a hot day like today. Only three hundred Jix a pop!”

Dean watches Cas being mesmerized by the machine-aided magick turning water solid—how the exerted hands of the saleslady cut and smash fruit to add on top.

Cas finally looks up at Dean, eyes wide and begging.

“Sam would _love_ this,” hears Dean, and he sighs as he produces another handful of coins from the depths of his pockets.

Cas happily carries the treats home without further complaint. They only melt halfway.

Sam gives the two of them a warily glance before he takes a seat on the kitchen counter—Dean finished that one up only yesterday—and feeds himself with a scoop of his fingers.

Hisses, “It’s _cold_ ,” and Cas beams, “Yes, isn’t it fantastic?”

Sam makes a face and Dean eyes him pointedly, a wordless warning.

“What’s that on top? Zuuwqa?” and another scoop. And another.

Sam leaves the empty cup behind. Dean is still unpacking.

Cas nudges at him, all proud and giggly, high as a fucking kite.

“Told you he’d love it,” he says, and Dean chuckles his, “Okay, man.”

They haven’t talked about the bathroom at Jahr’s. Haven’t talked face-to-face, period, because there’s always either Cas or Dad, and Dean’s grateful. Wouldn’t know what to say, if he’s supposed to say or do anything at all.

He likes how things are right now. All casual and friendly and there’s always something to busy himself with, a drink to catch with Cas or something to tinker on with Dad or around the house. Sam’s gone most days anyway, off, studying his craft.

Comes home around sunset, usually caked in mud and in this new favorite outfit of his that contains his boots, too-short black cotton shorts and an even shorter cropped black top, skin-tight. He’s horribly sunburnt until he’s browned to the deepest layers of his skin, until his hair lightens. Comes home with a pair of sunglasses one night and Dean’s eyes spot fresh tattoos, here and there, strewn all over in places Sam wouldn’t be able to reach himself.

“It’s fine, Mom,” teases Sam, because he always knows these things. Knows when Dean’s thinking of him, and Dean hates that. “I don’t let them underneath my clothes.”

That’s not a hard thing to do, given how little of it there is on him.

Dangles his legs from counters, from chairs. Curls up in corners, in Cas’ lap. Smokes and laughs, belly-deep, and twirls on his feet like a dream. Like he’s free, and easy, and Dean wants that for him. He does.

Whispers, “Quiet,” in Dean’s room, seated tailor-fashion on Dean’s futon with Cas blissfully sleeping in his lap—with his fingers carding through that dirty hair, Cas’ mouth breathing soft and deep against Sam’s slowly but surely showing happy trail.

Night settles, dips this world in green.

Dean pulls the door closed behind himself and crawls towards the two.

“Look,” babbles Sam, pipe dancing in the fingers of his not-on-Cas hand, “look, you wanna see something funny? Watch.”

Sam’s fingers pinch Cas’ nose shut, making him grunt with displeasure on the next inhale. Sam giggles as Cas swats at his hand, turns to really bury his face in Sam’s crotch now, sleepy and uncaring.

Sam doesn’t seem to mind it either, and Dean hates that this is how they apparently normally are with each other.

“You can’t smoke in here.”

“I do what I want,” reminds Sam, devil-smiling because it’s true. That hand is still on Cas, back of that head now, petting relentlessly, playing down that naked neck.

Both Cas and Sam are topless.

Dean’s brother sucks on his pipe again, keeps his eyes locked with Dean’s as Dean gets up on his knees, pulls his shirt off himself as well.

Likes that that mouth quivers oh-so-slightly before it sets back into that sly smirk. Sam scoffs, mean.

“What, wanna show off your beer gut, fatass?”

And Dean tells him, “Shut up,” cups that face and leans in to kiss his brother on the mouth.

There’s just peaceful quiet. The shy flutter of Sam’s and his own breath. The smack of their lips when they break up. The holy little inhale through Sam’s nose when Dean dives back in, when Dean dips his tongue past his easily-opening lips.

A whole-body shiver when Dean holds them apart. When they’re forehead to forehead and Dean’s thumb skates across that cheek and Sam’s eyes are closed, and Dean is in over his head.

“You gotta stop doing that,” murmurs Sam, eventually, timidly.

“Stop doing what?” Dean bumps their noses together, slips his hand from cheek down that throat, past all those necklaces until he finds that other jewelry. Thumb-tugs at it just to get Sam fluttering.

Sam informs, “That,” and puts his pipe-hand on Dean’s shoulder to gently push him away. “I’m not some—toy…for you to pick up whenever you feel like it.”

Dean smiles, confused. “What are you even talking about?” and he leans in anew, but Sam turns his head and tells him, “Stop it,” and plucks Dean’s hand off his tit, too.

“Stop, I mean it.”

Dean laughs, choked-off. “You’re not serious.”

“You can’t keep doing this shit and expect me to pretend there’s nothing.”

Dean retracts himself then. Sits back on his haunches, hands on his thighs. His erection flags, sadly, immediately, and his brows furrow with anger.

With impotence. “You’re such a fucking pain in the ass, you know that?”

“Be angry with me all you want, it’s still not my fault,” and Sam keeps his voice down, still, through all of this, because Cas is right here with them.

The backhand slaps loudly, cruelly.

Dean’s hand stings. It’s not enough. “That all you good for? Teasing and playing around, until there’s actual consequences, huh?”

Sam huffs, stuttery; raises his pipe back to his lips and that’s enough for Dean to hit him again.

Sam shoots to a stand, then, tossing Cas off himself in the process and Cas wakes for that, of course he does, blinks irritated and hurt and slurs for, “Whu?” and Sam’s stomped out of Dean’s room, threw both doors with the loudest bang, and Dean is left on his knees.

Panting, stupid.

“Dean? Dean…you okay?”

Dean hisses, “Don’t,” and Cas’ hand pulls back.

Eventually, “What happened?” and Dean gets up then, bangs the door behind him as well.

Past a scribbling Dad (“Dean?”), out the front door, and down the stairs; barefoot and he pulls a splinter, feels that sharp pain zinging up his foot and he gasps, roars, annoyed, enraged.

He stomps down the unpaved road and the soles of his feet burn. His steps quicken until he’s running, then sprinting, and he doesn’t stop before he’s tripped and sprained his ankle and it hurts like a bitch, and he nearly falls to his stupid face; wishes he had.

Goes to his knees and they burn as well on this heated, sandy ground, and his palms join and it’s comforting in a way, this warmth.

Nothing around him, not a soul, for miles on end. Could die out here, out in the open, only the sky above, no clouds, no nothing.

Dean’s vision blurs before his tears drip dark circles into the sand, join his sweat.

All of it is gone, evaporated, within moments.

~

The necklace around Dean’s neck had been a present. His twelfth birthday. Sammy was just eight. A baby.

A baby with cursedly quick hands.

Sam would steal, a lot, back then. Had a hard time understanding that no, just because they have a lot and we don’t doesn’t mean you get to redistribute. But Dean let this one pass, because it had been his birthday and he didn’t want to fight and he was weak.

Sam had the damn thing wrapped and everything.

That damn, tiny little thing.

Scary-looking, when you think about it. Just a head. A horned face. Lisped through the gap in Sam’s teeth, “It made me think of you. Kinda looks like you, don’t it?”

Absolutely doesn’t. But Sam sees things, sometimes. Sees deeper and wider and Dean doesn’t have the heart to tell him he’s full of crap, man up and eyes up front, you’re gonna get us killed talking shit like that, you hear?

The pendant dances between Dean’s fingers, now. Warm with his skin and Cas sighs into his armpit, nearby, slips his hand that little further on Dean’s chest until his pinkie grazes that scar Sam left years and years ago. (Dean wasn’t good at clipping baby-nails; his own fault, this one.)

Dean stares up at the ceiling. Dad snores next-door and Sam’s room is quiet, as always.

Sometimes, if Dean focuses, he hears a page turning, a pen scratching.

~

“Have a safe journey.”

“Thanks.”

“Send a hologram from time to time,” and Cas gets a subtle elbow into his back for that. Steps back then, finally, and lets Dean step forward, get his hug, a pat on the back. Guy just never knows when enough is enough.

Dad doesn’t say ‘I love you’. Just holds Dean extra-firm and that’s enough, it is. Maybe would have said it if Cas wasn’t here. But, yeah, doesn’t feel right when it’s not only the three of them.

Or, not this set of three.

“Tell Sam to take care, all right?”

“’Course, Dad.”

“And maybe get him to cover his navel for once.”

Dean scoffs, leaning against the doorframe, watches Dad skipping down the stairs. “Well, I can try.”

“Tell him I said to listen to you,” and that’s the last holler before the ship swallows John up, before the door slips closed and the entire thing hovers into the air and disappears.

“Ah,” gasps Cas. “I knew I forgot something. Didn’t I say to remind me to ask what kind of beaming technology he’s using?”

“Didn’t,” corrects Dean. “And it’s not like he would have told you.”

“Ah, curses.” Cas frowns, truly upset. “Ash will not be happy about this.”

Dean snorts. “Tough luck.”

A consideration. “Your father detests me, doesn’t he?”

“Absolutely.”

A sigh. “I thought so.”

“Don’t take it personal,” comforts Dean, “he doesn’t like _any_ one.”

~

The new cadet wears that practiced kind of smile one could hide anything behind. Dean not smiling back at her earns him a glint in those eyes, a pissed pinch to her body language.

She confronts him, later, as he exits the bathroom. Has her spindly arms crossed in front of her chest and inquires, “I don’t know what your problem is, kid, but if you don’t want me here, just say the word and I’m gone.”

One of Rufus’ referees—he can’t make that decision by himself. “I’m sorry if you didn’t catch enough sunlight beaming out of my goddamn ass, but let me assure you that the amount of rainbows and glitter in my eyes has absolutely zero to do with you, Bradbury.”

“Winchester, right?” She narrows her eyes, searches his face. “As in John Winchester? The bounty hunter?”

“My dad.”

“Didn’t know he had kids.”

“Good.”

“What does a bounty hunter kid want from a rebel group?”

“I’m not my dad,” Dean states, crossing his arms as well. “Could ask you the same thing, but oh, I forgot—you didn’t tell us anything about you.”

She scoffs; a familiar tone Dean knows from himself, from Sam. She tosses her red hair out of her face. “Told you the important bits. You want my dad’s maiden name or something?”

A techie, excellent hacker. Best of her generation, according to Rufus, and Rufus doesn’t care much about these things but Ash had very obviously and silently taken note.

She could be invaluable, but at what price?

“Look,” says Dean who has another appointment, “it’s your decision whether you want to be part of this team, but this isn’t some kind of game, and nobody gives a flying shit if you grew up in the gutter or if you were fed with silver spoons. So quit the bullshit attitude. Nobody here’s after you or your dirty little secrets. We have more important things to do.”

With that, he leaves her be. She doesn’t follow him.

It’s hard—to see himself become more and more like his father. Because it’s the side both Sam and himself like least. Because it means Dad is his standard, and how is he supposed to meet _that_?

It’s what he’s supposed to be though, right? Strict and calculating. All the responsibilities resting on his shoulders. How hard it becomes to be understanding and compliant when one ill decision might kill your entire crew.

Dean rakes his fingers through his clipped hair as he settles into his seat, looks around irritated. “Where’s Cas?”

“Oh, he left early,” informs Annie with her hand halfway inside the falling-apart projector.

“What, he’s got something better to do?”

“He said you’d handle it just fine.”

Dean scoffs. “Sounds like him. Okay.” He gestures towards Bobby. “Let’s start, then.”

~

“You like her.”

Dean frowns, swivels his head towards the offending source of noise. “What? Who?”

“The new one. Charlie,” says Benny, and he’s supposed to be somewhere else right now and Dean’s just about had enough.

He pulls himself out from underneath the ship, tosses the tool into its drawer.

He begins, “Cadet,” but Benny cuts him off.

“I see how you don’t trust her, but she’s fine. Careful but fine.”

Dean’s eyes narrow. “And you know this how?”

“First of all,” drawls Benny, now pleasantly leaning against the ship, Dean to his feet, “I know _you_. Your signs and your way of dealing with people. And you like her, and it pisses you the fuck off.”

Dean keeps from rolling his eyes. “And second of all?”

“Second of all, I’ve worked with her before, and she’s _fine_ , Dean.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me that earlier? Are you kidding me?” Dean rises to his feet now. It’s been a long day and his head is stuffed to the brim, and he’s this far from smacking something or someone just to take the edge off it all. “Benny,” he warns, “you gotta talk about this kinda shit with me, you hear?”

“Oh, because you’re so generously making time for hearing me out.”

Dean balks. “Oh, that—you didn’t say it was _urgent_ , so I thought—goddammit, be more specific next time, will you?!”

“Noted,” prompts Benny, clear of humor.

Dean plucks the gloves off his hands. “So.” He clears his sinuses. God, he needs a beer. Or five. “What kinda work, red riding hood and you?”

~

Dusk is breaking by the time Dean’s feet find themselves on their home’s end of the beaming connection. The house is quiet. Sam’s out studying, Cas gods-know-where. A moment of peace for him, finally.

Dean sighs, toes off his boots, shucks out of his jacket which he blindly tosses onto his and Cas’ futon. Out of his room and a beeline to the kitchen, the fridge.

As he fishes for a bottle of beer, he can’t fail to notice the calm feel—of their home. Their _home_. How familiar the light breaks through the windows. The colors, the scents.

Dean thumbs at a blemish on the kitchen counter he’d spent hours sanding down. The first gulp of fizzy, malty goodness soothes him like a hug. He ponders searching Cas out in town, tailing him for whatever nightly adventures he’s most probably setting himself up to right now. Dean smiles to himself.

An odd noise then, from deep inside the house.

Dean flinches, listens.

Again, and human. A voice.

Another voice.

He knows both of them.

Dean remains standing where he is and puts his bottle down. Both hands on the counter, now, and he cannot not listen, cannot not stand here and force his brain to draw conclusions.

Sam moans again.

Dean feels a new kind of empty. A new kind of betrayal, and it hits him so _unprepared_ (which is a lie, maybe, because hadn’t he thought of that before, hadn’t he feared and pushed aside and and and?).

Maybe his mind is playing tricks on him but he hears it, now: the growing slap of skin on skin, all the way through the door, across the corridor. The barely-there creak of Sam’s bed.

The distant rumble of Cas’ low voice, somewhere underneath it all.

Dean swallows nothing.

He grabs his beer for another mouthful. And another. And another.

After the drink is all gone, he takes a seat at the kitchen table. He doesn’t know why. Why he doesn’t get up and leave—give them privacy, save himself. Why he can’t help but sit here and humiliate himself, torture himself further. Beyond what he thought possible. It hurts.

It fucking hurts.

They keep it up for however long. Dean’s thoughts have spiraled in and out of several years’ worth of quantities by the time the door opens, oblivious, and his naked captain stumbles out.

And he doesn’t see Dean at first, maybe because Dean’s not moving a muscle and he’s not supposed to be here, and neither of the two heard him coming home, but once Cas spots him with his hand already on the handle to the bathroom, he gasps a sharp, “Fuck,” and Dean’s terror grows further, and his mouth goes even drier.

“Dean, I—”

“What?” from inside Sam’s room; Dean’s little brother.

Cas sputters, “How—long have you—?” with his hands half-covering his sweaty face instead of his bare crotch and Dean doesn’t have an answer, and so he doesn’t reply.

“Is he _here_?”

Cas rumbles again, “Fuck,” and Dean can’t feel a thing.

~

The engine works just fine. He checks it again, just to be sure.

Can’t be sure enough with this kinda stuff.

“You need more hobbies,” says someone, and Dean tells them to, “Fuck off.”

“Kitten’s got claws,” mocks Bradbury, and Dean is ready to kick her ass out of the garage until a cold beer meets his bare shoulder. “Boiling in here, isn’t it?”

He accepts the peace offering not without a measured glare. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome! Now, was that so hard?” She smiles down at him and they clink their bottles together before they take their first sips.

Dean’s eyes pan back to his current work in progress. He feels and hears Bradbury squatting down next to him, peering into the metal guts along with him.

“Fun.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Need a hand with that?”

“It’s just a check-up,” he tells her with a peek at the distracting glint of her metal arm wriggling its fingers next to him.

“All righty,” she chirps and plops her ass down right then and there. “Holler when you need me, then.”

“I’m—”

“Brooding,” completes Charlie, entirely unfazed by the violence in his eyes. “Look, I know the feeling, and you can ignore me all you want, but digging through tons of metal with an attitude is nothing a grumpy boy should be doing without supervision.”

Taken aback by _her_ attitude, Dean can’t do much but frown at her, at his beer. “What are you, my mom?”

“You know, you’re almost cute enough of a thing that I’d let you call me Mommy, but I think I’ll pass.” She gives him a measured look.

His irritation fades, entirely against his own will. He takes another swig. “Hand me the drill over there, will you?”

It’s been a few days. Three days, to be exact. Dean hates that he’s less and less angry, more and more pained. That everyone senses it on him, on them. Nobody’s been brave enough yet to address the awkwardness, the stiffness between their captain and officer. As far as Dean knows their crew, they’re talking. Figured out the hows-and-whys, maybe. Saw Sam a couple of times now, how close the three of them were. Dean isn’t proud how easy he had made—everything.

It’s Jo who breaks. Who half-whispers, “Did you two fight?” with true concern in her eyes, no mockery or hostility; like a child between quarreling parents. Fearful.

Dean soothes, “No,” but doesn’t explain further, gives no room for that. He can’t.

And it doesn’t belong here, in the garrison. Belongs to him and Sam and Cas, if anything. Mainly to him, because they have each other, apparently.

With nowhere else to go, Dean crawls into bed at night. Cas hasn’t spent a night here since Then. Sam and him are out of the house a lot, lately. To give him room, maybe, but probably just to fuck each other’s brains out where he can’t spy on them.

Didn’t confront him, and he returned the favor. There’s nothing to say. They knew what it would do to him and did it anyway. That it even was a possibility for them to… It’s hard to understand. How they could deceive him like that.

All he can think of is _since when?_ and _how could you throw away what we had?_ —hadn’t it been perfect, the three of them? Had felt perfect for him. Not for them, apparently. Hadn’t been enough. Not with Dean in the equation, anyway.

That Cas would do this to him—such a queer concept. Knew about Sam and him, didn’t he, the worm; never talked about it, gods no, but he always posed the exact questions, always so calculated with how far he could bait Dean into admission of the unspeakable. Saw Sam and him touching and even with Dean’s limited social horizons, he had felt that it was unusual for two brothers, despite all the circumstances.

Didn’t Cas care about that, at all?

“Dean,” he hears, too-close, far-away.

Cas’ eyes are clear, and his face is feigning normalcy. Not a smile; he’s polite like that, of course.

Dean keeps his eyes pointed to the map his captain points to.

“Would you take a look at this, please?”

~

“Long day?”

Dean nearly-looks his brother in the eye; holds himself off last minute. Memory-grab into the fridge. “Yeah. I’m beat.”

“I brought zuurtak if you want any,” points out Sam, somewhere in Dean’s peripheral.

Dean raises his now-opened beer. “I’m good. Gonna hit the sack after this. Night.”

And he hears, “Dean,” like a plea—the whiny kind, like he didn’t play along right, so he barks, “What?!” and it comes out too loud, too sharp.

He meets Sam’s eyes on accident, without thought, and it stabs him right where it counts.

It’s quiet between them for a moment. They try to gather their courage, both of them, and it seems impossible. Dean can’t do it.

Sam can. “Look, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, all right?”

Dean opens his mouth, but there is nothing. He takes a long sip from his beer instead.

Leaves the devil dangling, rightfully so.

“I’m sorry you had to find out that way. I didn’t—”

“How long, Sam?” and he turns to look at his brother for that, for the caught, humiliated twist to that mouth.

A moment of consideration. Of what amount of truth Dean even wants him to spill—how much of it Dean can _take_.

“I—like that, it was that day. Honest,” he adds, knowingly, but Dean scoffs anyway.

“And before you, what, only held hands for weeks?”

Again, “Dean,” and yeah, fucking writhe in the dirt, fucking _suffer_ in it. “You—we didn’t exactly hide it or anything, you _saw_ —”

“Yeah, and you know what, Sam, I didn’t SAY anything because I TRUSTED YOU TWO!”

Sam flinches. Dean’s fists hurt from coming down on the counter as hard as they just did.

He doesn’t want to stop. “But I’m starting to see how you two FEEL ABOUT ME, so no fucking need to pussyfoot around me, man, because I KNOW! I fucking KNOW NOW!”

Dean hates that Sam knows before it happens; that he manages to wring his hand around Dean’s wrist before he can smash the bottle and probably shower both of them with shards. That Sam can touch him and talk to him and that it tears Dean apart, every second of it.

He roars, and Sam lets him yank himself free. Beer spills across the kitchen, onto the floor. Dean slams the bottle onto the counter and turns on his heels to head to his room, the beaming stand safely tucked away under that one floorboard. He can’t stay here. Not tonight. Not ever again.

The city is bustling with life, none of it in Dean’s interest. The bars are packed and so are the streets. Dean’s ears pick up snippets of conversations in colorful languages he doesn’t know the name or origin of, but which that metal extra in his brain translates for him without a care for either of those facts. It’s all meaningless.

Someone tries to make conversation with him and he turns away. Gets shoved and cursed at and he leaves that place. There’s always another. He’ll sit in the gutter if he has to.

“This ain’t no place for a sweet thing like you.”

Dean opens his mouth for retaliation before his brain reminds him that he knows that voice.

Dryly, he says, “Charlie,” and her swagger diminishes with the rasp of his voice.

“Oh, lords, you’re drunk.”

“Ain’t. Fuck off.”

“Okay, time to head home, big boy,” and she’s so devilishly quick to haul him up, wrap his arm around her shoulders so she can drag him along better. She wrinkles her nose. “Ew, man, what have you been _ingesting_?”

The world tips and twirls. Lights dance; nameless faces. “Where’re you taking me?”

“Mi casa, so I can lock you in and keep you from getting fucking killed out here.”

“I—no,” Dean slurs, attempting (and failing) to push off of her.

“No worries, I’m about as much into man-meat as you are into sobriety; your virginity is safe with me.”

“I—” His turn to wrinkle his nose. “I’m. Not.”

“Would appreciate it if you stopped opening your mouth so close to my nose, man,” and he hangs on for the rest of the journey.

There’s no control left in his limbs or his brain, which is great. He hates that Charlie found him, that she takes care of him. That she sees him like this—weak, whiny.

He can barely see he’s so intoxicated. His vision is a constant spin and blur but Charlie’s place smells nice—clean, medical. He knocks his head into at least three different types of tech equipment once she (stupidly) lets go of him to lock her door.

“HEY, don’t break those!”

Dean garbles amused nonsense.

“Bedtime,” grunts Charlie and hefts him onto a pleasantly soft surface.

“Sleep now?”

“Yeah, please do.”

“Boots,” he manages, and his leg barely lifts with his own command.

Charlie sighs but does help him out. Which is the last thing Dean remembers.

~

The constant clicking of keys lulls him out of his sleep.

His eyes won’t open right; he glares at the strips of light filtering through the thick curtains framing the only window.

He groans and turns before he eventually sits up.

“Morning, princess.”

“How long was I out?” His voice sounds more broken than he feels, which apparently is the only upside to Dean Winchester’s current situation.

“Oh, like, ten hours.” Charlie doesn’t look up from her various computer screens. She’s folded into her chair, typing away furiously. Her hand blindly reaches for a drink. A bright pink straw peeks out over the rim of a cup labelled RTEW FRJIK MMALA and the according picture of a wrnl’ha flipping him the bird.

He scratches through his hair, his face. “You got any water?”

“Kitchen,” she informs, and he begrudgingly makes his way out of bed.

His body reminds him of all the bad decisions he’s made lately, and all of them culminate to a sudden sprint to what he can only hope is the bathroom.

Charlie hollers, “Need me to hold your hair?” and Dean couldn’t reply if he wanted, bent over the toilet like he is for the next five minutes.

He feels indefinitely better and worse at the same time, after. Finds the lone bottle of H2O in Charlie’s fridge and gulps it down greedily.

“Help yourself, I think there’s some leftovers in there somewhere,” and he eyes the half-heartedly wrapped containers but eventually decides against this potential health hazard.

Charlie asks him, “How’re you feeling?” and turns around for him this time. She looks equally caffeinated and concerned.

“Did you even sleep?”

“Eh, sleep is for the weak. How are you feeling, chief?” and he hates how soft she looks at him, how tired she obviously is.

“All right, I guess. Man,” he croaks, “fucking sorry.”

“You’re fine. Maybe this will teach you not to drink yourself into a coma?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Because I _will_ find you, Winchester.”

“You’re a champ. Thanks. For everything.” He holds up the empty bottle. “For the water.”

“You’re welcome,” she chimes and toasts her cup towards him before an obviously well-needed, long sip.

He smiles, settles onto the edge of her bed. He juts his chin towards the mess on her overloaded desk. “What’re you up to?”

“Oh, just some minor stuff,” Charlie assures with a dismissive wave of her hand.

Dean can’t make sense of the blocks of text, of back-and-forth flicker of images, of graphs.

Comments, intelligently, “Huh.”

“Look, I don’t wanna be the nosy bitch, but if you ever wanna talk about your girl-problems, I’m here, okay? Like, I don’t judge.”

“My…” Dean frowns. Takes a hot second to tie her words into place long enough to decipher. He smacks his lips, sighs. “Sure, yeah. Thanks.”

“Wow, you’re good at that.”

“At what?”

“Being fucking _sad_ ,” Charlie informs, and he can’t object to that with more than a laugh.

~

It’s way easier to get back on track with Cas than with Sam. Garrison-talk flows into small talk eventually, and that helps. A transition into a new ‘normal’ with Cas. And it’s easy to forget when Sam and he are not in the same room.

It’s harder at home, though.

The way they dance around each other like Dean’s a time bomb or something and they don’t wanna trigger him. Little too late, folks, innit?

“Look, guys,” he has to tell them eventually, aided by a drink or two, “stop the act, all right? I don’t fucking mind.”

There’s so little lie in there that everyone collectively and silently agrees to it all.

They don’t, like, tear each other’s clothes off in front of him. It’s the little things—the drift of a hand, a squeeze here and there. That passing, subtle too-closeness, the hungry near-constant body contact.

It’s hard to miss how they look at each other.

How Sam looks at Cas.

If he ever looked at Dean that way, it’s been too long ago for him to remember right.

They try to be discreet about it, but Dean can hear them fuck next-door without failure, every time.

It happens a lot.

If they’re actively trying to be quiet, that only makes it worse. Because that means that they’re louder when he’s not around, when they’re by themselves. That that dimension is something he won’t be let in on. That there’s a world where there’s just Sam and Cas and nothing else.

They’re littered with love bites, both of them, and comments dance on the tip of Dean’s tongue—ranging from cruel to outright dirty—and he can’t say any of them out loud because that would mean he’s been staring at them, thinking about them.

Sam keeps growing weird, stretching in oddest crooks and corners. Under Cas’ hands, in front of Dean’s eyes, and Dean won’t know any of those new inches. They won’t know him, and the thought is unbearable. Sam outruns him height-wise, and Dean only notices it when it’s too late, when that once-little kid nearly spins into him in the kitchen, barefoot, and Dean has to tilt his eyes slightly _up_ to see him right.

Dean Winchester’s heart breaks anew. A different part every day.

It helps greatly that Cas and him are nearly back to where they were before it all. That Cas sleeps in Dean’s room again every now and then, cuddles up to him and touches him; brushes a shoulder or Dean’s neck or Dean’s hand and it’s only a little bit odd. Feels only a little like Dean’s a mistress.

God. The places those fingers must dip into on the regular, now.

“We still have to get you laid,” reminds Cas with said fingers dancing along the bared back of Dean’s neck, with Dean half-dozing and his face buried in the crook of Cas’ neck.

Dean grumbles something beyond dismissal or approval. Revels in the goosebumps Cas always and easily pulls out of him with his feather-touches, with the warm weight of his body.

Cas muses, “Boy or girl?” and Dean hears the mischief, feels himself heating over the glimpse of sincerity. “Neither? Either?”

Dean huffs his laugh. Too-low, too-cozy.

Cas tickles his fingers down Dean’s spine. The smooth dip of it in his lower back.

“Share with the class,” his friend hums. “Gotta know what we’re looking for.”

Dean settles with, “Dunno,” and shivers. Grins, unseen, into Cas’ hairy pec. “You pick.”

“Mh, you let me pick?”

Cas sounds as amused as Dean and yet more prodding. Rubs his knuckles over Dean’s kidneys, flirts half a fingertip between skin and waistband.

“I think you need someone…to show you the ropes.”

Dean doesn’t move. Doesn’t dare writhe or breathe wrong under the slow ministrations in fear of making Cas shy away.

Dean’s eyes are closed, and Cas has worked his wicked fingers nearly down his tailbone.

“Yeah,” into his hair, soft and warm and knowing. “Someone to ease you into it. Someone older, maybe?”

Dean croaks, “Cas,” and Castiel prompts, “Yes?” with his fingers tucked safely over where Dean can only imagine he’s had them with his brother nearly twenty-four-seven lately.

Dean leaks into the futon. The thinned cotton of his boxers, and if he raised his head now, Cas would kiss him. He knows that. So he doesn’t.

Just remains here, breathing weird until Cas inquires again, “Yes, Dean?” and tucks his fingers just-so, doesn’t push them in but the sensation is insane anyway.

Not even Sam had touched him there so confidently.

Nobody.

“Feel free to join us whenever,” confides Cas, secret-quiet and Dean’s heart stumbles painfully for it. “You know you may, right?”

Dean pushes himself up with his arms; Cas’ hand pulls out of his boxers immediately and he settles it on Dean’s hip instead, until Dean has rolled and twisted out of his reach.

“Dean… Dean.”

Dean grabs for a nearby shirt to cover himself; tosses it away in anger when he realizes it’s one of Cas’.

“Dean, I’m sorry. Please calm down. Please, let’s talk.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” bites Dean, and that’s that.

~

Hooking up is easy, he thinks.

The way Cas always talks about it makes it seem that way, at least.

Dean can’t figure it out. The thought of letting a stranger this close… He can’t wrap his head around it. The amount of trust! Insanity.

“So, you like girls, right?”

Charlie gives him a look that would insult even the limited intelligence of a toddler. “Your point?”

Dean clears his throat. Gestures. “When did you…y’know? _Know_?”

“Okay,” she says, getting up from where she was crawling into the intimate depths of one of their fighting jets. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but if you have a question, just cut to the fucking chase.”

“Will you be my wing-woman?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Wh—” He balks. “Charlie, man, come on!”

“Look, it’s not like I don’t begrudge you getting your whatever wet, but no decent lady, or, _any_ person, deserves to be picked up and _dropped_ by your confused ass right now, all right?”

“I’m—you’re an asshole, you know that?”

“If there’s a single nice girl on this planet, I will find her and keep her for myself, Dean Winchester,” Charlie dictates with harsh points of her finger, “and no amount of pity for you will deter me from that mission!”

God fucking dammit.

It would be more frustrating if he knew the difference to this, maybe. If he knew what exactly he was missing out on.

As things are, the garrison doesn’t fail to keep his mind occupied, his discipline up.

His seventh mission at this point, and it’s nothing ‘spectacular’ anymore. Well, there’s the threat of him and everyone else dying in horrible ways, of course, but—he’s starting to get a feel for how he’s got this. That he can do this.

How has Cas not developed a god complex by now?

How hasn’t he lost his head, deemed them invincible?

He’s been doing this shit way before Dean. A truly admirable captain. An idol, even though he tries his best not to come across that way. Always so freaking humble, which helps keep Dean and everyone else in check, too.

Sam’s anxiety about them leaving has worn itself out to some sort of underlying, permanent dread as opposed to his usual explosive tantrums. Dean doesn’t quite know what to think of that. Reminds him too much of himself, and Sammy was never meant to become like him.

There’s unmasked concern in that face; only traces of anger—about the world, about their stupidity, their selfishness.

Cas and Dean’s brother hadn’t kissed goodbye in front of him before, and he doesn’t expect how hard it stirs him.

He can’t avert his eyes and feels bad once he notices; turns his entire body as they hang on tight for that last, prolonged hug. Dean had already gotten his.

Whispered words, not meant for Dean.

~

They make it. Of course they make it.

“All thanks to you, ma’am!”

“Don’t ‘ma’am’ me, you nerd,” laughs Charlie as she slaps Dean’s arm, but her cheeks are heated in that way only a good compliment from the right person can bring to light.

“You were amazing, cadet,” agrees Ellen who pours all of them a new round.

Purely private parties are on hold for now; captain’s orders. They’ve grown fast and hauled in successes even faster. Might have to lay low for a while, maybe relocate their base soon. When it comes to attention, there’s no good kind of it for their line of activism. (Or any activism under [], that is.)

Nobody but Cas and Ash seem to be able to truly make a sense of how and why they got into the mayor’s kid’s engagement party, but the booze is plenty and the crowd colorful enough to remain invisible.

Dean steals the umpteenth canapé from a passing robot’s tray and washes it down with clearly-not-home-made high-proof.

The hours have rolled past midnight and you can taste that. Can feel it in the vibration of the huge mansion, the volume and laughter of the guests.

Dean’s scanning the room for his brother and his captain as the familiar jab of Charlie Bradbury’s elbow punctuates his ribcage.

“Hey, you’ve seen Jo?”

“What, Jo?” Dean frowns, tries to stir his thoughts into the wanted direction. “Didn’t her and Ellen leave, like, an hour ago?”

“Nah, saw mama bear just now; they’re still around.”

“Huh,” states Dean. Balks, then, and fixes the redhead pressed to his side. “Dude.”

Charlie snaps, “ _What_?” in that high note people hit when they want to stress how they are totally not bullshitting you.

Dean repeats, “ _Dude_ ,” and Charlie rolls her remaining human eye at him.

“I don’t need you to chastise me, good sir, so help me out or let this huntress be the huntress.”

“You’re a _vixen_.”

“Do you even know how to spell that?”

Dean laughs and holds his arm out for her to hook hers into, which she gladly does with her attention still jumping to every even remotely light-haired head in the room.

“C’mon, let’s find your girl.”

They end up finding more food robots, which helps lessen the sting of failing their proclaimed mission of spotting young lady Harvelle—at least for Dean, who is entirely too amused by his friend’s misery. Giddiness is so very uncommon in Charlie ‘let me hack into this government-regulated satellite real quick’ Bradbury.

“You’re really into her, huh?”

“Shut up, dickbag.”

“It’s cute,” muses Dean, one bite-sized snack in his cheek and the other on the way past his lips. “You’d make a great couple.”

“Shut up.” Bashful, “Really?”

“Sure. I mean, I dunno if she, y’know…?” Dean spreads his fingers to imitate scissors and grinds them together with the grace of a preschooler.

Charlie punches his shoulder again. They both laugh, though.

Charlie swirls her almost-empty bottle of soda around, free hand on her hip. Tired; scanning the room. “If she’s not—well, I can’t help it, y’know?” she says, shrugging, drinking. Dean nods sympathetically. “I mean, I think I saw her looking at me, like—y’know, _looking_.”

She indulges him in eye contact, pregnantly raised eyebrows.

Dean smirks knowingly. “Uh-huh.”

“Like, maybe she would like me to be her big sis, but also maybe she would like me to spank her ass until she cries.”

“I said ‘uh-huh’, Charlie.”

“God, I’m in over my head, aren’t I?”

“Eh, you’re fine.”

“How do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Y’know,” says Charlie, gesturing towards the crowd. “Find playmates? Like, we’re both nomads, aren’t we? What’s _your_ spiel?”

“I’m, uh.” The question hits Dean unprepared. He shrugs, plays with the (empty again) glass in his hand. “I’m not good with people, usually, so.” More shrugging.

Charlie deflates visibly. “Why do you have to be my brother from another mother so badly, Dean Winchester?”

She says her goodbyes not long after; the party lost its shine without her chosen prize. Dean can sympathize—he wouldn’t stay either if he, in contrast to Charlie, wasn’t so ridiculously easy to bait with alcohol.

Watching people is enough. Conversations are informal at best at this hour; no value left (if there ever was any), and he’s tired. Maybe another drink or two, find the two idiots, get everyone home safe. Another successful evening…minus Charlie’s misfortune. But Dean’s got a feeling that this won’t be the last thing he’s heard of it.

Dean isn’t used to company that’s not on his eye-level—who grew up without the constant worry of when there will be food again, of when their parent will return, if there are enough bullets left to last them until then. The garrison narrowed his perception further. And even if they all throw on semi-fancy clothing like tonight around this kind of bourgeoisie (“To blend in,” Cas had advised), it still seems like him and his people stick out like odd straws in an otherwise orderly bouquet. Maybe it’s in how they carry themselves; the little things. Years of stress and violence do something to you on a molecular level, and you can’t charade around that.

Sam, of course, he kinda fits. With his jewelry and his snobbishness and the goddamn grace he was able to develop despite being raised by dirt like Dad and Dean. Dangling from Cas’ arm who is the master of play-pretend and might be considered a king of some sorts by the odd person tonight—a great couple. They do make a great couple, he has to give them that.

“Brother, hey.”

Dean mirrors, “Hey,” and smiles, helplessly, caught off-guard and dreaming.

Benny meets him hand-on-shoulder, exchanges the empty vessel in Dean’s fingers with a fresh supply. Clinks glasses with him and smells extraordinary; maybe stole some cologne from the fancy washroom or something.

“How’re you holding up, chief?”

Dean says, “Eh,” and can’t help but shift his weight away from the marble pillar and into the comfort of Benny’s hand. “Food’s good.”

“If you call that good, you should lemme cook for you sometime.”

Dean laughs into his glass.

“What?” Benny grins back at him. “You think I’m lying? I’m a great cook, ask anyone.”

“There somethin’ you even remotely bad at, cadet?”

Dean keeps his glass by his lips just to busy them.

Benny fixes him with those blue-blue eyes of his, and it looks like he’s about to say something.

He turns his head instead to scoff, take another sip from his drink.

Dean grunt-laughs. “What?”

“Nothin’,” hums Benny, and Dean snorts in gentle mockery.

Benny tells him, “Oh,” and, “Hey,” and nods forward.

Dean follows the gesture and, between too many cushions and the bustle of strangers, he finds the back of a head he knows all-too-well—throning a neck, a broad set of shoulders.

Cas’ hand, there, somewhere.

Dean clears his throat.

Benny illustrates how, “At least someone’s havin’ a grand ol’ time,” and Dean discreetly looks back, sees through a gap in the crowd how Sam is straddling Cas’ lap.

Sam’s in one of his criminally short tunics. The skirt of it rides up every now and then ever-so-slightly with how he grinds them together, revealing the very bare minimum of his ass. One of Cas’ hands lies atop of it, casually, possessively; one thumb hooked into the slim belt around Sam’s hips.

They might not be outright fucking, but Dean sure doesn’t exactly know how to tell the difference.

Benny laughs, all air—both fascinated and uncomfortable. More uncomfortable with how Dean can’t take his eyes off them, probably.

Dean averts his stare, then. Clears his throat again, drinks.

“They do that a lot?” and Dean feels his upper lip lifting in half-disgust, half-amusement.

“In public or in general?”

Benny laugh-asks, “Both?”

“Probably, I dunno. Whatever.”

“He’s your brother, right? Sam?” and what kind of question even _is_ that?

Dean states, “Yeah,” dry and weirdly proud and it hurts, and he’s gotta look back; catches the subtle, practiced fumbling of Cas’ hand with Cas’ pants, and Dean forgets how to swallow or exist because there’s the flash of Cas’ cock, barely-there but Dean’s laser-focused and maybe hallucinating but it’s gone so fast, because Sam hitches his hips and sinks down on it right then and there, right in front of everyone.

Nobody’s looking, though, except Dean.

“That must be kinda weird, huh? Seeing your kid brother like that?”

“I mean, yeah,” says Dean, probably, because all he can think and feel is Sam bowing his head further down, Cas’ fingers tangling in his hair as they kiss.

“Hey,” close-by, “You all right?”

“I—yeah, just.” Dean shakes his head, tries to smile, not-break; not let Benny (or anyone) see. A huffed laugh, all choked. “It’s just, uhm. I dunno. Pretty weird.”

That they don’t even care. That they can get lost like this, be free like this, without a care for the rest of the world.

How is nobody ogling them, stopping them?

What kind of place _is_ this?

“Surprised us all, didn’t they? Those two.”

Dean blurts, “Huh?” without looking away. Hear-feels Benny’s voice, leaned-in close to his ear because the room is packed and loud and Dean’s perception would be limited even without the show unfolding. Left-over adrenaline and ethanol and sore muscles and homesickness.

“I say: a surprise, them. Y’know,” amused, tipsy himself probably, “the way our cap’n was always paradin’ around you, you’d think he had other plans.”

Sam’s clothing shifts over his skin with their movement, with the thoughtless drag of Cas’ hand. Only ever plucks that one away when Cas grabs at him wholeheartedly, reveals substantially more than just a flash of skin. Like he doesn’t care who sees Dean’s little brother’s ass.

Dean’s barely stirred. Demands, blandly, “What do you mean?” just to pretend to keep up his end of the conversation.

Benny throws him a lopsided grin in his peripheral. “Come on now, chief. You know exactly what I mean.”

“Y’know what? Fuck you.” Problem is, Dean doesn’t know anything. “Cadet, you don’t know anything,” and he graces Benny with full eye contact for that one just to make a point, to convey that Benny’s one indiscretion away from having his face caved in by Dean’s fist.

And Benny tells him, all sober, “Oh, absolutely, I don’t,” and withdraws all by himself, with a last long eye contact and twisted smile for his first officer.

“I’m losing it,” murmurs Dean, glaring after the man before he leans back against the wall, his prime spot, raises his glass back to his mouth and pans his eyes back to Sam and Cas on that oblivious couch across the room. “I’m gonna fucking lose my goddamn mind.”

He doesn’t say anything on the way home except for Cas to keep his pants on for the gods’ sake and that no, they can’t stop at Martin’s for a late-night cup of coffee. Sam’s all pliant with exhaustion and the incredible amounts of smoking him and Cas indulge in nearly on a daily basis at this point; but homecoming nights are special. That sheer euphoria. Dean can’t blame them.

Addresses his brother though, once Cas has formally excused himself into the bathroom and they’re left lingering in the kitchen; last station before everyone departs to their according room for the night.

Asks him, pointedly, “You had a fun night?” and Sam breaks into a sly, wide laugh. Dean chuckles along, helpless. “What?”

“You’re so fuckin’ pathetic, man.”

Sam slurs past him, and Dean hears the door to Sam’s room open and close, far behind himself.

~

Are there things in your life you look back on and think: gosh, what if?

What if I did or didn’t do this or that? What if I had done x instead of y?

That’s part of the human experience. Stupid, because how would you change the past? Not at all. Time doesn’t work that way.

Doesn’t work any way we’d want, how it would be convenient.

Maybe time’s just that one bitch who does these things on purpose to fuck everyone’s day up to feel better about themselves.

Time has not and never will be on Dean Winchester’s side. Slipped through his fingers when he’d needed a moment, stretches and stretches whenever he tries to fall asleep so badly. When he’s by himself and his past and future and present haunt him, torture him.

Isn’t it ironic?

There’s a hunch to Dean’s thoughts on that day, that cloudless afternoon—two, to be exact: he remembers that they’re out of qwklgah’n, that Sam had reminded him three days in a row already (why he can’t go and pick it up on his way is beyond Dean). And how somehow, absolutely, he doesn’t want to do it right now, even though he’s got some rare free time on his hands and literally nothing better to do.

Like a voice urging him: don’t.

Dean Winchester yawns, scratches through his hair. Rolls to his side on his futon, bathed in light. The house is empty, all doors open (Dad’s not here and there’s a gun within arm’s reach, always) and he’s up for another nap or two until he’ll have to get dinner started eventually.

He frowns with his eyes closed.

Mumbles, finally, “Goddammit,” and pushes himself upright, begins to raid his surroundings for a pair of pants, a shirt.

Neither item truly belongs to him—the shirt an old hand-me-down of Dad’s, and the pants are semi-new but were a gift from Jodie who proclaimed that she will burn Dean’s formerly favorite and apparently no-longer-acceptable pair in front of his eyes if he doesn’t have them switched with these ones next time she sees him. Used to be her late husband’s, whom she rarely talks about. It’s been so long, she says.

But they’re his, now. Given to him. Are growing on him, molding to him, his shape, his life.

Dean forgoes socks, slips into his boots barefoot. Laces them half-heartedly. It’s not a long walk.

Some money, a bag. He slips the coins into the pocket of his pants, stuffs the bag into the back pocket; a sip from the chilled bottle of H2O, right from the fridge. He feels his stomach slowly growing impatient and grabs a zuuwqa from the nearby basket. Dean has finished eating it by the time he’s reached the front door.

Takes a casual fifteen minutes into town, if you’re feeling lazy. Dean’s legs don’t exactly know such a thing, but he _can_ drag his steps if he tries hard enough.

It’s a nice day out, mainly because he’s got the house to himself and no other obligations to tend to. That shit used to upset him, drive him nuts, but he’s getting better—as wrong as that sounds to himself.

There’s nothing wrong with him _per se_.

Which also sounds wrong.

Actually, nevermind.

At least it’s a nice day out.

He remembers thinking that, deciding that like he has any power over that sort of thing, an instant before he’s struck down.

He can’t remember if his knees ever even hit the dust, that day.


	3. REBIRTH

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please re-check the tags if you haven't already—most bad ones apply to this chapter.

Dean Winchester disappears for eight nights and eight days.

People look for him, people are worried—rightfully so. Because even if there are guys who would bail on you and won’t give you a heads up for several days, Dean Winchester is _not_ that kind of guy.

Dean Winchester loses time, and it rushes back to him once he wakes.

And it is with a scream that he wakes, and he does not stay awake for long. Gets pulled back under by every still-there cell in his body in the honest effort of pure and simple preservation.

In eight days and eight nights, Dean Winchester loses more than he was aware he had available in the first place. Never had been this aware of his body, of every little piece of it, the nooks and crannies and in-betweens. Never had been this selfish, this indulging.

He learns pain. He learns death.

Thoughts you entertain yourself with in a bored moment. Scenarios. Daydreams.

And it won’t stop. It won’t stop.

There is only endlessness and the shell of his body. His soul a prisoner, and it fades, and fades…

but never quite enough.

Dean Winchester wakes again,

and he remembers everything.

~

Doc is his new best friend. The only person he can tolerate, maybe only because everything human about her is her brain mass inside that impressive body of chrome. Because she’s distant enough for Dean not to feel weird about his very own, newly acquired lack of humanity.

She changes his bandages in dignified silence. Dean is all tubes, no life. Can’t move and doesn’t think he wants to, ever again. But he might have to, and it terrifies him.

Sam is by his side all the time. Cas, too; everyone. But this isn’t Dean anymore. Doesn’t _feel_ like Dean anymore. Only leftovers of what once was.

Dean hates that Dean’s body recovers. That it allows to be nursed back into lesser pain, that it frees capacities for his thoughts and his brain and his emotions.

Or, the lack of all those things.

Doc’s hands rub at him, squeeze and tug at him. She says, “Please try to lift your head now, Dean.” He doesn’t. “How about your knee?” and she touches it, and he hates that he feels it. That it hurts. That maybe even if he tried, his muscles won’t listen to him.

They talk at him—Sam and Cas and Benny and Charlie and everyone. Even Dad comes to see him, pets at him and tries not to cry. Dean can’t bear to look at him. To be looked at by him.

Dean’s first words are, “I wanna be alone.”

~

They beg of him, and they reason. They argue with him and berate him, and with gritted teeth and a, “Fine,” Dean Winchester does them the favor of pretending to wanting to keep this body alive.

Dean Winchester is excellent at pretending.

He does what Doc says and he lets Sam spoon-feed him solid foods. Lets Doc touch him and move his fading limbs, or whatever is left of those.

Pretending gets put on hold when he realizes how everyone is so pointedly, so politely ignoring the catheter.

They know.

“GET OUT!”

“Dean, we—”

“GET OUT, GET OUT, GET OUT!”

Dean tears at tubes and needles and his various body fluids spray all over himself, the floor, the pale faces of his brother, his captain, poor Doc (who will put him back together once Dean calmed down, once they’re alone like he requested).

Dean sobs, ugly and worthless, and the stumps at the ends of his arms opened back up and he bleeds, violently. Feels that warmth soaking his lap together with his piss, his tears.

If we ever make it out of this room, we’ll simply take one of the guns and put an end to it. So, it’s gonna be all right, okay?

Just a little longer. Not much longer, all right?

Sam strokes through Dean’s hair like he’d do it when they were younger. Back when all Sam had was Dean, back when Dean was serving a purpose. Tells him, softly, “I’m here,” because he’s the only living thing in the galaxy who will be honest with Dean about how ‘it’ won’t get ‘better’.

Dean lashes out at him. Makes too-crude jokes simply out of spite, because they both know Sam won’t leave him for it. Something ugly in Dean wants him to, though. Wants to get Sam that far and beyond, take away that last bit of tenderness Dean’s got left.

Dean’s captain’s loyalty is of immense scope. Drags Cas to his bedside day after day, at any moment he doesn’t spend on the garrison. Smiles and believes in Dean, tells him, “Of course we’ll have you back,” like it’s already decided, like he already _knows_. “Once you’re all healed and ready to go. We need you, Dean.”

Cas touches the body that once held his chief officer, and Dean can’t bring himself to correct the poor fool.

~

“It doesn’t hurt at all.”

Jody twists and turns her arm.

“Honestly? I prefer it, kind of. Lighter. And the strength in this bad boy? Pretty sweet.”

Dean watches her artificial limb. Doesn’t smile, doesn’t converse.

Jody smiles too much, too forced. It’s not like he doesn’t believe in what she says is true for her, but it’s not _his_ truth.

Dean tells her, “Thanks for the input,” and she insists, “Any time,” and returns to the others soon after.

Hands and feet—he figures that yeah, sure, he’ll _have_ to agree to that, right? Can’t work, can’t walk otherwise. If only to make it as far as his gun, have fingers to pull that trigger.

Doc insists, “You’ll barely notice a difference. We’ll do real-life skin. All the functions from before, it will feel the same, both touching and being touched,” and she doesn’t mean his hands, or his feet.

’S why she talks so hushed, babies Dean beyond anything a man should need.

And it’s still not enough. Still hurts, and he can’t accept, so he shakes his head, “No.”

She deflates some. Tries again. Dean notes with satisfaction how her patience is wearing thin and thinner. “Your alternative is a catheter and a bag, Dean. You _are_ aware of that, right?”

Of course he is, goddammit. “I need more time.”

“Reasonable,” she admits, sighs. “The results will be better the sooner we operate though, regarding sensitivity et cetera. We can replace nerve endings, of course; these aren’t the nine-hundred-thousands. But it will feel less like you remember it. Not less in quantity, mind you, but quality.”

He half-smiles, lost. “Yeah, you keep saying that.”

“You have all the chance for a high-quality rest of your life, Dean, you _do_. But you must _take_ that chance, understand? You are not—”

Worthless? Worth _less_? “You keep saying _that_ , too,” he interjects, kindly, strictly, and her chrome mouth slithers shut in empathy. “I get it, all right? I get it. But I need some more time.”

Doc gets up from her semi-constant seat on the side of Dean’s bed.

“Then I advise you to think your thoughts soon, Dean Winchester, unless you want biology to decide for you.”

~

It’s not a choice, not really. If only for the illusion of dignity.

Dean returns from the anesthesia and feels the new, foreign weights immediately.

Is _highly_ aware, and his pores ooze with cold sweat, and his heart rate climbs through the roof and Doc’s voice is alarmed as she calls, “Dean?”

The pain is just like he remembers. Worse, because these are new limbs, unscathed and perfect and not-his-own. Because it’s in his head—he watches his hands and they’re _not_ being cut open, the bones are _not_ getting broken and peeled and crushed and hammered off so why can he _feel_ all that?

Dean’s vision goes white.

He returns with his new hands, his new feet, his new genitals still attached.

The cycle repeats several times. Repeats until Doc eventually gives him some of the good stuff that wraps him in cotton and pulls him further away from the agony, from himself. Far enough that he can talk now, and, kind of, function.

He doesn’t dare move. Couldn’t move how they had fixed him, either, not an inch.

Sam feeds him, pets through his hair. Climbs into bed with him and Dean would push him off if he could move, would tell him, “What, why now? Little too late, don’t you think?” and Sam curls up with him like a kid, that small body now unreachably grown, foreign but for the smell, the heat of it.

Sam’s the first to touch Dean’s hand, because he doesn’t think of it when he grabs it to hold it in his own—

and Dean _feels_ it.

Feels Sam’s skin. Like it’d feel on Dean’s skin, way back.

And he feels the recoil of those fingers. Of that silent moment of surprise about the texture, even though it is warm, body temperature, and Sam does grab that hand tight, he _does_ , but it’s not _Dean’s_ , and it never _will_ be.

The machine replacing Dean’s hand gets cradled to Dean’s brother’s chest, tight and secure, and Dean has yet to go a long way to accept that this is as good as it gets.

~

The better his condition, the more they leave him be. A blessing and a curse—because now, he’s left to his own devices. To his own thoughts. To the reality that this is the beginning of his new life, if he likes it or not.

Sleeping and doing absolutely nothing gets old real fast. Eventually and grudgingly, Dean drags himself to Sam’s room to help himself from the vast selection of books he’s got hoarded on every available (and non-available) surface.

One book becomes two. Become a bunch.

He doesn’t have to understand what he reads, and he doesn’t want to, either. Just a way to keep his mind off the obvious. His new hand turns page after page, oblivious.

The days crawl by. He declines visitors. Tries not to scowl in Cas’ or Sam’s presence, pretends not to hear them fuck in every room he’s not currently in. It’s not their fault. It’s nobody’s fault.

Sam frowns, but he’s not pissed. Not a lot, at least. “You sure?” he asks, like Dean has a stutter or something.

Of course he’s fucking sure.

And Sam, bless him, he does bring him a bottle. Sets it down in front of him and pours half a glass, half of one freaking glass, screws the bottle shut afterwards.

“You kidding me?”

“You wanna lose your liver next, asshole?” Sam grabs the glass, holds it out for him to accept. “Take it or leave it.”

Dean takes it.

It’s too easy to detect the bottle, once Sam has left.

So easy that Dean feels bad. Then again, maybe Sam simply didn’t count on him being physically able to climb a fucking chair, which evens things out.

By himself, he sits by the window, drinks. Watches the wind howling through the valley, the clouds traveling across the sky.

It’s pathetic. You’re pathetic.

Are you not gonna try? Not at all?

Dean sighs, closes his eyes. Feels the warm air on his skin, in his hair.

Dean heaves himself up from his chair, takes the bottle with him. Over in his room, Dean opens the trunk in the corner to put the gun back.

His fingers graze the floorboard hiding his end of the beaming stand.

He hesitates.

They said they want him back, didn’t they? Said: it’s okay. It’s okay.

Dean works himself up to a decent sweat just by hauling the stand from its hideaway. Swears the entire duration of it and sways as he finally gets to his feet. He activates the damn thing and steps on top of it.

The next thing he sees is Benny’s face.

Beyond surprised, his mouth hangs open for a second, gives Dean a good view of his current dinner—crumbs in his whiskers and everything.

“Oh,” his crewmate says. “Dean?” A wipe of the back of that hand. The room is eerily quiet, empty but for Benny’s bulk of a body, the remainder of his sandwich. “That’s—a surprise.”

“You saw my port activating on the… Goddammit, Benny—”

“No, I _did_ , just thought it was a false alarm, like the last times—brother, you know I wouldn’t—! Hey,” and Benny’s on his feet now, leaves his food behind in favor of closing in on Dean, reaching out with that usual softness of his. “You all right?”

Dean lets him hug him. Lets him hold him.

Hears, “There, there,” and wants to scoff, wants to tell the guy off because fuck you, but he finds himself melting, finds his knees giving and his neck relaxing.

Benny holds him for so long that it’s almost enough for Dean to start bawling like a child. Almost.

Pulls back right before and smiles, hums, “Good to see you,” so Dean can clear his clenching throat and croak back that, “Good, yeah.”

Dean clears his throat again. Benny’s hands are still on him.

“Where’s, uhm…?”

“Supply runs, minor stuff. Ash went to some cousin’s wedding.”

“Ah.”

“Donna and Jody left for their honeymoon last night.”

“Oh? Oh.”

“Yeah.” Benny grins. “You missed a lot of shit, brother.”

They sit at the huge round table in the center of the room. Benny pulls out some bottle of god knows what and pours for the both of them, and Dean doesn’t question, doesn’t thank him. That’s bullshit you don’t need, not with Benny.

Benny runs his mouth on updates and gossip until he’s all out—until the bottle is all gone and Dean feels almost normal again.

Gets that gentle smile and that inevitable, “How’ve you been?” and scoffs, sighs. “Get that a lot lately, don’t you?”

“All the fucking time, man. ’S like the world ran out of questions for me. Fucking sick of it.”

“But do tell,” presses Benny, low and calm and intrusive in a way you cannot be angry at him for, and Dean barely twists his forearm from underneath that warm-warm hand. “Nobody’s heard of you in…hell, brother, weeks? And you know our cap’n, he ain’t spillin’ no nothin’. So do tell.” Urgent, Dean can tell by the squint of those eyes and the shyness of that added, “Please.”

Dean’s eyes narrow at the man. There’s still that hand on him, Benny’s knees nearly knocking into Dean’s.

Dean grits, finally, “Jahr’s still in business?”

Benny’s mouth flirts back into a smile. Dean likes that better. It’s never fake when it’s on Benny. “You might wanna put some shoes on, first.”

“Why, I don’t even feel ’em. They don’t get cold or anything.” He hollers after him, uselessly, “Benny… _Benny_.”

Dean sighs, defeated, while Benny disappears into the locker room.

Benny returns with a pair of boots. He goes to his knees in front of Dean and reaches for what Doc attached to Dean’s leg—gets a hold of Dean’s calf instead, where he’s still himself, and helps him extend his leg.

Dean’s jaw clenches. His pulse flutters up into his mouth.

Benny slips the boot onto his foot with utmost care. Ties it tight, not too tight, before he does the same for the other one.

Those hands slide over his shin, around the withering span of his calf.

Benny hums, “How far can you walk?” and Dean croaks, honestly, “No clue.”

Benny smiles, eyes still on Dean’s leg. His touches feel good. Any touch at all, probably. God, Dean’s drunk.

“You gonna let me carry you?”

“Dude, I would—” Dean cuts himself off. Continues instead, “Not much of a choice, is there?” Feels himself flushing neck-upwards, and Benny’s chuckle doesn’t do much to help him.

“All right.” Benny pulls himself to a stand, helps Dean to do the same right after. “Let’s get you drunk, chief.”

Halfway out the door, Dean spins around—what about…?

But Benny says, “It’s my responsibility, not yours. Don’t worry about it.” Adds, uselessly, with a smirk, “Technically, you’re not even my officer right now. You ain’t gonna tell me _shit_ , boy.”

And that’s that.

If it wasn’t for the booze, Dean would be outraged. Would be turning around, whoop Benny’s ass. Leaving his spot, just like that? Just to get drunk because Dean said so? That kinda shit gets people _killed_.

“I can hear you thinkin’,” warns Benny.

Dean gets an arm draped around his shoulders. It’s chilly. His thin t-shirt flaps around his emaciated body in the sharp breeze. He focuses on placing one foot in front of the other.

“I’ve got this,” he hears, and he feels fucking horrible for believing in it just like that.

They make it to the bar. Dean has no clue how. Can relax once Benny’s got them a fresh entire bottle, has them settled into a corner booth—Benny’s back faces the room, so Dean has the luxury of a full view. Can feel in control, and Dean appreciates that, he really does.

Sweats, nevertheless; bucketfuls. The music in here is loud, not too loud but Dean’s not used to it anymore. An off sensation and he has to look and see to realizes it’s Benny’s hands cradling _his_ hands, those foreign metal things that are part of him now—and he throws back another shot and chases, chases, chases.

“Been tough,” he confides, eventually, at some point. After talking about something entirely else, something passing and stupid, maybe something he picked up in one of Sam’s books. When did Benny slide in next to him? Doesn’t he trust him to look out for them anymore?

(Dean spills some booze as he tries to refill his glass, so, probably a good call.)

“Been hella tough, man. Just wanna end it all, mostly.” He gets the stuff down his throat, somehow. Burns so good. God, he wants to go on forever. Feel this light and non-existent, endlessly. “E’rybody lookin’ at me like some degenerate? Fuck that. Wish those bastards would’ve fuckin’ finished the job. But that wasn’t the point, was it?”

Another shot. Dean slams the glass down on the table just to feel his arm.

He keeps his eyes on it. On the spin to his view, the low light casting bizarre shadows.

He frowns. Feels like frowning. “Wanted me to live. To… Like…like an animal. No dignity.” He nods. “They wanted that.”

A weight on his shoulder, his back. He blinks, tries to get Benny back into focus—right, Benny. Benny’s here. Talking to Benny.

“They should’ve known better than letting you live. Look at you.” A squeeze, hard enough for it to reach Dean’s punch-drunk brain. “Look at you, now, brother. You’re here. You’re alive. You survived _hell_.” A sharp grin, canines. “Nothing can touch you now.”

And Dean, he thinks: did I?

Did I?

~

Dean’s body fights itself awake. His senses are just present enough to alarm him how this is not, definitely, absolutely _not_ his bed.

He startles, tries to push himself upright, gulps for air.

He doesn’t know this place. Tiny. Clean. Curtains drawn but the window is cracked and busy traffic trickles into the room and he’s sweating, panting, his entire body sore and in agony and—

“Chief, you’re fine.”

That’s Benny, Benny’s voice—distant, closing in, bare feet on wooden floor and Dean whips his head around to stare the man in the eye as his head appears in the doorframe.

Benny repeats, “You’re fine,” and Dean wants to fucking strangle him.

Not the time, man, not the right fucking time for this kinda bullshit.

“Do I LOOK fine to you, asshole?!”

Benny laughs.

“Where are you GOING?!”

“Getting you some goddamn coffee.”

Clatter from what Dean’s brain figures to be the kitchen. He gulps, presses his eyes shut—belly-down on the bed, the crumpled sheets. Wills his hyperventilating lungs calm and calmer until his hearing is right once more. Until he recognizes the whole-body pain as sore muscles—they walked somewhere, didn’t they? Hell, he _walked_?

Finally, shamefully, “Where am I?”

From the kitchen: “Take a wild guess.”

Dean cringes, drops his forehead to the mattress. “Your place.”

“You’re welcome.” There’s Benny; Dean hears him. Feels the bed dipping with the weight of him taking a seat on its edge. Smells the steaming hot cup of coffee, held somewhere close to his face.

Dean grumbles.

“Watch out, it’s hot.”

Dean accepts the cup with both hands without looking at the man. Murmurs, “Thanks,” with his lips already on that cup, careful, because Benny’s fucking right.

The first sip burns down his gullet, into the clenched empty of his stomach.

Dean sighs with forgotten delight.

Benny lets him drink in silence. Just watches him, and Dean can see that from the corner of his eye. The crisp white of Benny’s shirt, the warmth in those eyes.

Dean’s head turns, though, when his peripheral picks up his neatly folded set of clothes over the back of that chair in the corner.

Feels the mild breeze dancing over the bare backs of his knees, and his neck stiffens anew.

These are not…his clothes.

Benny inquires, “Did you sleep okay?” like a mom, like a lover, and Dean croaks, “What fuckin’ time is it?”

“Oh, noon?” Benny checks his watch. “Four thirteen. Your brother called at like six in the morning.”

Dean groans, lowers his head.

“He was lucky, we had just come through the door. Told him you’re fine, all is well, you just needed to get some fresh air. Stretched your legs a little.”

A scoff. “And he believed that?”

“Hasn’t kicked the door down yet,” supplies Benny, and Dean sobers non-pretty for that.

Sam would have freaked the second he’d notice him missing. Would call around, set all hell into motion, pronto.

Six a.m.?

Wasn’t even home the entire night, then. Out with Cas, somewhere, god knows where.

Isn’t here. Didn’t demand to speak to him, _didn’t_ , because if he would have, Benny would have shaken him awake, punched him until he did what Sam asked for. That’s how things work, if Sam wants them to work.

Which was not the case. Isn’t.

A gentle, “You hungry?”

Dean shakes his head.

Benny flirts, “There’s a fresh loaf of bread in my kitchen, y’know.”

“Why am I wearing your shit, Benny?”

Tilt of head. A sigh. “You want the family-friendly version?”

“Benny.”

Benny supplies, all sober, “You pissed yourself,” and the idea in itself brings enough shame and hilarity to Dean’s system that he chortles. “No, really. Soaked your entire shirt with Lghr-Ok’l, too. Took the liberty of throwing it in the wash instead of fucking setting it _on_ _fire_.”

Dean laughs. “Shit.”

Benny shrugs. “It happens. No big deal.”

“Didn’t know I could still do that,” blabbers Dean, before he catches himself.

A sly smirk. No pity. “What, piss yourself? Or drink yourself into a coma?”

Still half-laughing, Dean confesses, “Both,” and his heart hammers against his breastbone, all safe and warm in one of Benny’s assorted sleeping tees.

Dean finishes his coffee. Benny helps him into the bathroom.

Dean finishes his business and wipes his hands clean before he puts his hand to the doorknob. Hears Benny talking, hushedly. Focuses, because the walls are thin; they always are.

“I’ll ask him. I’ll call you back. … No, it’s fine, Sam. You’re all right.”

Coincidentally, the call ends the moment Dean opens the door.

Benny tells him, “Hey,” and, “everything all right?” Stands by the tiny drawer in his corridor, his communicator peeking out from where he stuffed it immediately, effectively, and Dean considers it with a pregnant look before he tilts his eyes back to Benny’s face.

“Look,” says Benny. “You can call him, go ahead. If you wanna go home, I’ll bring you. Your choice.” Those hands raise in defeat, and he steps backwards. The corridor is so small his back meets the wall nearly immediately.

Dean has himself propped against the doorframe. His lower back is killing him but he can’t decide, can’t pick.

Fixes Benny again, eventually, to murmur, “Where’s that fresh bread I heard you mumblin’ about?” and that smile is immediate, relieved.

Benny tells him, “Butter, too. Salted and everything.”

~

Sam nearly punches him in the face. And oh, how Sam wants to. Dean can tell.

“What were you THINKING?!” and that’s just a fraction of what Benny must have gotten this morning, of what the garrison must be giving him right now. “You can’t just LEAVE without, without ANYTHING, Dean; not even a fucking NOTE, NOTHING!?”

“What, he reads to you while you suck his dick?”

That right hook is a mean fucking thing and Dean laughs, not-surprised, cradles the cool of his metal hand to his assaulted cheek.

“You think this is funny?”

Dean wants to tell him, “Kinda,” but gets lifted by that fist in his tee, gets his head knocked back into the wall and half-bites his tongue instead.

Meets his brother’s tight-serious eyes and smirks; feels his lip lifting enough to feel air on his teeth. Loves that his face fucking hurts, because that means Sam’s hand hurts at least as much.

Sam keeps inquiring, “Is this a joke to you, huh?” and he’s shaking with it all, with the fear and the disappointment and the fury, and Dean never thought he’d get to see that. Not on that face. Not on that boy. “Do you have ANY idea of how fucking SCARED we were?!”

“‘We’, huh?”

“Yeah, Dean, WE—your goddamn captain AND I!”

“Maybe if you weren’t so busy spreading those legs of yours twenty-four seven—”

“YOU SENT _ME_ AWAY, NOT THE OTHER WAY AROUND! Fucking GROW UP, DEAN!”

A sudden, effective loss of words. Both sides stare at each other, and the words claw through the distance between them, through places that are too soft, too raw.

Sam, instead of apologizing, shoves Dean away from himself. Makes a pained noise, somewhere between a grunt and a sob, before he leaves Dean seated at the kitchen table to stomp into his room, bang the door hard enough for the plates to chime inside the ratty cupboards of this place.

It takes a moment for Dean to come back. For him to blink back online, look down at his hands, his knees.

Two shirts, three pairs of pants; gun, knife. It’s not logical, it doesn’t have to be.

There’s still so much gaping fucking space in his duffle but that doesn’t matter; he’s on the beaming stand, and then he’s gone.

It’s not Benny who’s on duty this time, but Ellen knows where he lives and almost doesn’t roll her eyes at Dean.

Good enough.

~

“Aren’t you tired yet?”

“What? No.” Scared, “You?”

Benny chuckles. “I could use some sleep, yeah.”

Dean considers his chances. Peers at the watch on Benny’s wrist; can’t read shit, too small. Might be one, two a.m.

“Bar crawl? My treat.”

Benny laughs at him.

“What?”

“How ’bout you sober up first? Also, with what kinda money? You were broke even before you went out of commission.” It’s not an insult, doesn’t sting like one would. Dean hates that Benny knows so much about him, that he makes Dean spill his entire guts all the time.

Tries, firm: “You think I can’t get my hands on some money?”

“Oh, I doubt there’s anything you can’t get your hands on, darlin’. But if you wanna get drunk off your ass tonight, you’re gonna do it solo.”

Dean gets a buddy-pat on his shoulder and feels even more embarrassed by it. Glares up at his crewmate, who chuckles and thumbs at his cheek like the asshole he is.

“Imma hit the deck. Good night.”

Dean is left on his own, again. In this crappy kitchen, the sole company of one semi-thriving plant by the windowsill.

Dean sulks for all but ten minutes before he trails his friend.

Benny’s already out, faces the wall, head on his angled arm. Scoots even further when he stirs half-awake for the commotion Dean’s clumsy body makes upon crawling under the covers, groans softly, sweetly, tells him, “This okay? I’d offer to take the couch—if I had one.” Chuckles for his own joke, because he’s an idiot like that.

“’M fine,” says Dean, who hasn’t exactly shared a bed with anyone since before the entire mess, the operations; not like this. Who feels utterly lost, now that he’s here. That the person who’s with him isn’t Sam (or Cas).

It all hits him. How fucked all of it is. How dumb he was, and still is.

Nights are blue on this planet. Deep and hollow and damp. Trif condensates on the windows, has Dean shivering, hugging himself.

“Hey,” he whispers, “you got any siblings?”

Benny grunts, “Only child.”

Dean tells him, “Hm.”

“Sleep tight,” is a muffled thing, warm and far away.

~

A good dream. Cozy, soft. Like it used to be. Just them. Just them.

A voice. Saying his name, all tender.

D-e-a-n.

Can be a moan, a huffed little plea. Sugar-spun around fingers, twirled around a tongue.

“Dean.”

Low, lower. Dean’s throat vibrates with his pleased hum. The body in front of him is warm, firm.

A nudge, and Benny’s voice whisper-asks, “You still sleepin’?” and those fingers card through his hair, and that beard is close enough to tickle his cheek.

Dean’s eyes are heavy, and it’s easy. Barely-turns his face and that mouth is right there, smiling, waiting. Dean kisses it.

The scrape of that beard, the press of those lips—

that warm nasal breath, the scent of Benny’s skin.

Dean prologues the kiss.

Works their mouths together like he works his hard-on into the meat of Benny’s hip. Gets a hand on his face, a thumb rubbing along his cheek.

Dean sighs.

Shorter kisses. He scrunches his nose as reality takes a fistful of his insides and _pulls_.

“Fuck,” he babbles. “Shit. _Fuck_.”

He pushes them apart, sits upright.

“Shit, sorry.” Face in his hands; Benny’s right with him, rubs his back. “Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

“You’re all right,” consoles Benny. Dean hears him chuckle. “Must’ve been one hell of a dream, huh.”

“I’m—God.”

Dean curls in on himself even tighter. Is highly aware of that long-forgotten throb between his legs, and how is that even _possible_?

He’s sweating, trembling. “I. I.”

“Hey, it’s okay, it’s all right. Don’t worry about it, all right? Come on now, deep breath. In—and out. And in—and out. There you go. Yeah, there you go.”

Dean sobs in Benny’s bed, with Benny doting on him while Dean’s dick is so hard he feels like he’s gonna go blind with it.

They don’t talk about how it won’t go down by the time Benny’s talked him into a good hot shower, all by himself, of course, no questions asked.

Dean’s a mess of snot and sweat and tears and he can’t look at himself. Can’t touch himself.

Still has a semi bulging out his lent pair of shorts and Benny does one good job at ignoring it just as hard as himself.

Smiles, tiredly, coffee already going. “Breakfast?”

~

“Absolutely not.”

“But—”

“You heard me the first time, Dean,” and Benny growls at him in a novelty. “You’re _not_ sleeping on the goddamn floor.”

“Great,” snaps Dean, cornered and antsy and fucking humiliated. “Great, so you wanna see what happens next time, huh? You wanna wake up to me humping your leg like a fucking grnhla again?!”

Benny laughs. “I’ll take the floor if it bothers you that much.”

“No!” A huff, a helpless gesture. “You—I—I can’t hog your fucking _bed_ , man, I can’t! I’ll sleep in the tub, on this fucking rug, I don’t _mind_ it, and you’re being _stupid_ right now!”

Benny raises his eyebrows and the corners of his mouth at him.

Dean feels fucking livid. “Don’t LOOK at me like that, you fucking BASTARD!” He forces himself to his feet then, announces, “I don’t need your fucking PERMISSION,” and gets a firm hold on his arm as soon as he’s in Benny’s reach.

Dean yanks at his arm but isn’t let go.

Growls, “For fuck’s sake, cadet,” and Benny dares, “Yeah?”

Dean pants, furious. Can’t exactly move. Has his (Benny’s) sheets pinched under his arm and everything.

“Let. _Go_.”

“You’re not sleeping on my goddamn floor, Dean Winchester, and I’m not gonna repeat myself _again_.”

“Awesome. Great.” Dean puffs his chest out. Feels like crying. A mistake. All of this. He juts his chin out at him, spits, “This what gets you off, huh? Seeing me fucking squirm, making me fucking WET myself so you can have a good laugh with everyone about it later? Don’t think I haven’t seen it,” he continues, pent up now and it’s spilling, spilling, and he can’t stop. “The way you look at me, huh?! From the moment you joined us, could fucking see it in your fucking eyes, how you would _look_ at me—you think I can’t tell?! Think I don’t know EXACTLY what you want from me?!”

And Benny just looks back at him. Doesn’t smile, doesn’t scowl.

Asks, “You done?”

Dean grits, “FUCK you,” and abandons the sheets to straddle Benny’s lap, put both his hands on that face and grind their mouths together.

His eyes are closed but he feels the two of them tilting, falling backwards onto the bed. Feels Benny’s teeth, Benny’s tongue, holds on tight to that skull and takes what he wants. Gets what he wants, too.

Feather-light tips of fingers on his back and he jolts, shudders; growls in a threat and feels Benny’s chest purring with that hum of his—gets those hands into his hair instead, cradling him sweet while Dean licks all the spit from that mouth.

Gets yanked back by his hair, eventually, out of breath but struggling to dive back in, and Benny rushes, “This what you want, yeah?” and it’s a sincere question, it is, careful and more than Dean deserves and Dean gives his, “Uh-huh,” up against those teeth, the lap of that tongue.

Benny lets him. Puts his arms around him to press them close, chest to chest.

Dean grinds their cocks together too-tight. Wants it to hurt, but it doesn’t. It doesn’t, it doesn’t, it doesn’t.

Benny whispers, “Can I touch you?” and Dean nods, groans for those powerful hands running down his back, his flanks, settle on the tight bounce of his ass.

Dean peels them apart to push himself up with one arm, then two, redistributes his weight to where it counts—groans and tosses his head back with how good Benny knows how to push-pull him just right.

Hears, “Darlin’,” and, “Look at me,” and Dean does that, tears clawing at his eyes and his heart is all stutter-y.

Benny’s pupils are blown and his mouth looks inflamed, bitten where Dean’s teeth worried it. Those lips are parted with the heavy beat of his breath and they curl to a wide smile, then, a grin, a laugh.

“You know how fucking good you look right now?”

Dean urges, “Shut up,” and rides him harder, fucking scared because he thinks he’s gonna come any second now and he doesn’t know how and if that will work, if he even _can_ with the artificial shit Doc sewed to where he once was a Real Man.

Fucking scared because oh god he _needs_ it.

“Come on, now,” and Benny puts some real force into his hands with it, “let me see it. Lemme see you.”

Dean’s body tenses, and his muscles lock, and he doesn’t even remember—what it was like.

Too fucking long ago, all of that shit.

With Sam, Sam’s hand, Sam’s skin—Dean’s skin.

Dean groans belly-deep with the release. Has his fingers scrambling-raking at Benny’s tits because he’s rocking him through it, hard enough that it’s like he’s still riding him, still rutting them together like fucking teenagers.

Sobs, “I can’t, fuck, please,” but snaps his hips on his own the second Benny lets go of him, earns a mean sound and whimpers, helplessly.

Benny’s a saint because he doesn’t make Dean ask him to put those hands the fuck _back_.

He’s still so fucking hard, fucking tripping with it. Wet and ruined and it’s too much and they’re gonna be sore—fuck, hope he isn’t fucking ripping Benny’s dick apart with this fucking artificial bullshit—

but it _does_ feel familiar. _Does_ feel soft and just right, gives like flesh and skin, and.

Dean slows down, still panting. Still dealing with the fucking whiplash.

Blinks down at Benny, who grins at him, all pleased with himself.

A fresh wave of heat into Dean’s drippy face. “Shut up. Fucking shut up or imma fucking _strangle_ you.”

And Benny does as he’s told. Not a peep—slips those hands to the back of Dean’s neck again, though, to gently guide him down to his face, mouth-first. Kisses Dean, all molasses and thick and wet, and Dean’s cock twitches a last time, weakly, crushed between their stomachs.

Slurred, “Shit.” God. Fuck.

“Can I kiss you here?” and Dean sighs, “Uh-hum,” with Benny’s lips against his throat. Groans for the tickle of it, the hungry suck that follows.

Whole-mouthed, starving.

“Is this okay?”

And Dean nods, blindly.

“And this?”

Dean hisses. Throat-chokes, “Yeah.”

His skin breaks, burns. He pants, quakes. His muscles are not up for this shit, and they remind him too late.

“I’m, I.” Slip of his head, his knee. “I, lemme lie down, jus’, uh…”

Benny moves immediately, helps to turn him over onto his back, stretch out his cramping legs.

Dean groans, “Shit,” and Benny hushes him. “Shit, sorry.”

“You’re fine, darlin’.” A hand wipes his hair out of his eyes. “Okay if I kiss you right now?”

Dean hums his approval. Gets his face cradled and his mouth kissed. Floats with it—the closeness, the bliss.

He huffs, works his hand between Benny’s legs—just to get nudged away all careful, all respectful.

He frowns, confused. “But…?”

Benny assures, “That can wait,” and gets a hold of that hand, takes it into his own to raise it to his mouth, kiss those metal knuckles. Smiles, leaning on his side, the window in his back and the world is blue.

Dean has yet to catch his breath, and his eyes already struggle to stay open.

“That can wait.”

~

Benny keeps his polite distance, even in his sleep—isn’t glued to Dean when Dean wakes, on his side and facing the wall, and maybe that’s the only reason Dean doesn’t immediately jump out of bed, doesn’t fucking run for it.

Just lies there, frozen in anxiety, in inability to make a move.

What are you doing? What _did_ you do?

Benny’s still out, so Dean tries his best to fall under once more, too. Forces his eyes shut and wills his mind blank. Not much of a success there. Naturally.

This wasn’t planned. Nothing about any of this.

Shit. How do people _do_ this?

His nervousness forces him up and into the bathroom eventually. Benny’s half-awake, rubbing at his eye when he returns.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. I was just, y’know.”

Dean shrugs; gestures. Doesn’t crawl right into bed even though his legs demand for that. Tries prolonging it until Benny finally drawls, “You wanna get up already, or?” and swivels his neck for the clock, narrows his eyes when the digits offend him.

“Actually, I think I’m. Y’know.”

Benny finishes for him, “Wanna go home?” and Dean nods, humiliated.

Benny softens his features for him.

Assures, “Sure,” and, “your call, chief. Told you that before. And I mean it.”

Benny begins to heft himself out of bed. Dean tries, “You don’t have to,” and Benny croaks with the exertion, the early morning hours creeping through his sleep-deprived self.

“Unless you learned how to fly, I don’t think you’re ain’t going nowhere.”

Dean doesn’t have to do anything to break a sweat. Has Benny doing all the work for him—dressing him, collecting his shit from where he didn’t even unpack right. Pulls some half-assed attempt of an outfit onto himself, his hair still a matted swirl or fading ash, and leans forward into the fridge to ponder whether to pack some of the leftovers for his guest.

Dean’s parked at the kitchen table, boots laced and the whole nine.

Feels himself saying, “Benny,” and the man slurs his attention back towards him, unfailingly; so attentive and thoughtful and Dean doesn’t know what his own face is doing but there’s gotta be _some_ thing about it, judging by how Benny cracks a hungover smirk for him.

The fridge closes.

Benny’s still barefoot. Is all warm and unwashed, still, and hums his, “What is it, huh?” like Dean’s something fragile (which he isn’t (wasn’t)). Stands close enough for Dean to touch, to pull him closer by the hem of his worn-out Henley shirt, and actually, Dean wanted a kiss; didn’t crane his head enough apparently because Benny smothers him in his stomach instead, pets through his hair. Holds him like that.

Safe and gentle.

“You still wanna go?”

Dean shakes his head. His nose rubs hard into the puff of Benny’s belly.

“Hm.” Benny chuckles. “Wanna stay?”

“C’mere,” says Dean, head tilted upwards so Benny can see what he wants. Can give in to Dean’s face and the pull of Dean’s hands, can bend down to press their lips together, cradle Dean’s face in his hands.

Benny kisses with his eyes closed.

Asks, again, “You wanna stay?” quietly and in-between their mouths, and Dean is ashamed to give him his, “Yeah.”

It’s always such a hassle to put clothes on someone. He knows from experience.

Benny’s an unnecessary tease about taking them back off, though.

Has Dean writhing and panting and huffing in frustration and laughs at his obvious distress. Dean’s pants end up tangled somewhere around Dean’s calves, which is just about enough.

Dean hears, “Tell me what to do,” and growls instead. If there _are_ words, he doesn’t _want_ to find them.

“Careful. Careful, brother.” Benny laughs, so close. Goes so slack immediately with a hand on his cock, flirts his fingers up the inside of Dean’s thigh.

Dean shoves that hand away.

“All right,” says Benny, and lets Dean busy his mouth with another kiss. Maybe gets it because he doesn’t try to talk anymore for a while.

They shuffle, unsure, until Dean finds a good position to rut against Benny’s leg. Benny chuckles for that despite Dean’s fist working him wet.

Dean glares, earns himself a deep kiss and a quiet, “Not a grnhla; I get it, I get it.”

The room is silent except for the wet sounds of skin on skin, the barely-there creak of the bed.

Dean’s sweating already.

“Look at me. Hey,” soft, insistent, “Dean, _hey_. Look at me.”

Dean does. Meets those deep blue eyes and hates the flutter of concern where there should be nothing.

A palm cups his cheek, thumbs along the jut of it—skirts into the corner of his mouth, his lower lip.

“If you’re not comfortable with—”

Dean kisses him to shut him up.

Climbs atop, somehow, and Benny is smiling now. More like mischief and yeah, that’s better.

Dean sinks his teeth into that lip just in case. Trembles already; up on one elbow and his arms aren’t what they used to.

Benny doesn’t miss a beat. “Bit off more than you can chew?” and Dean would argue if it wasn’t obvious. If Benny wasn’t helping out with that brute strength of his, manhandling what’s left of Dean Winchester on the meat of his own thigh, chafing both of them in the process.

Dean’s eyes flutter shut with how Benny sucks at his mouth, his lip. Gnaws on it hard enough for it to sting; to draw blood, maybe.

“Gods, you’re hard.” Rumbled, low. Dean’s eyes are closed, forehead to forehead with Benny. “Tell me where to touch you. Tell me what to do to you, beautiful.”

Dean croaks something noncommittal, ruts his cock over the firm bulge making up Benny’s thigh.

Thinks he hears, “Here?” but the sensation of Benny’s hand on his ass drowns all meaning. “This okay?”

Dean hears himself mumbling, “Uh-huh,” feels himself nodding into Benny’s cheek as Benny doesn’t waste much time; stiffens pointer and middle and rubs them into Dean’s crack, across his hole, his taint.

Benny growls again, “Gods,” and his other hand joins the first to grope at Dean right. “Who would believe this? That I have you in my bed?”

Dean croaks his laugh, lost.

Benny licks into his mouth. Spreads his ass with one hand and rubs at him with the other.

It’s fucking foreign, and invasive. Vulnerable, because even Benny’s grandma could overpower Dean in his current degenerative state; but Benny wouldn’t do that. Doesn’t even push his fingers into him without having it spelled out by Dean.

“You want me to? Huh?”

Dean takes the responsibility off of the both of them by shoving his way down the line of Benny’s laid-out body.

“Oh,” gasps Benny, who catches on only by the time Dean drags his tongue down his happy trail. Tangles his fingers in Dean’s hair and babbles, “gods, darlin’. _Dean_.”

Finally at the right height, Dean licks him from base to tip; sucks his lips to the side of it and dares to glance at Benny’s contorted face in the half-dark.

Finds him trembling, fever-ish.

“ _Dean_.”

Dean flushes, violently, suddenly. “I’m, uh.” Just wanted to reposition his weight, didn’t think this through. “Is this all right, or?”

“Do you have any idea how often I’ve dreamed about you doing that exact thing?”

Dean’s chuckle gets muffled with how Benny gently (but imperatively) dips his face back down over his cock. He suckles at it again, flirts his tongue along the heavy veins.

Benny sighs painedly.

“Is this okay? Like, I don’t know.”

“Anything you do to me is pretty much the best thing that’s ever happened, so—yeah,” hums Benny. “Doin’ so well. Keep goin’.”

So Dean goes with the flow. Mouths and nibbles and gods he doesn’t exactly know what to do, and he’s beyond grateful for any sort of instruction.

“How ’bout you wrap those pretty lips around it?”

Dean does that, and Benny’s reaction is all he needs to know.

Shivers and a fresh dwell of salt, right against Dean’s tongue this time, and the hands in his hair tighten and Dean hears, “Gods, please,” and so Dean descends further, takes him deeper.

Push-pull on the back of his head, in his hair. He bobs his head in-synch.

“Hollow your cheeks an’—gods, exactly, _exactly_.”

Dean’s swimming, eyes closed. Tries to breathe through his nose and keep up the suction and he’s kinda getting the hang of it.

Has worked himself almost-down to the thick curls of Benny’s pubes when he hears, “Why don’t you turn around, let me return the favor? Like, crawl above me.”

Dean pulls off that cock to drawl, “Uh, no,” all intelligently, rough around the edges, “’M fine.”

Benny smirks at him with bedroom eyes, his canine flashing in the not-there light. “Want me to eat your ass, then?”

“ _Lords_.”

“That a yes?” and Benny is truly amused, begins to heft himself up to help Dean rearrange again.

Dean stops him, gently, with a hand on that stomach. Tells him, “I’m fine, honestly,” and Benny’s putting his hand over Dean’s, sits up to look him in the face right.

“Nothin’ to be ashamed of.”

“Nah, just, uhm.” Gods. “I don’t, uh—this is all kinda new, so.” He blurts, finally, “The prosthesis a-and—”

“I got you, chief.” Benny cradles that hand in both of his own, now, bows down to kiss Dean’s knuckles. Looks Dean in the eye, after, smiling sweet. “Remember when I got mine; weird, innit?”

Uh. “What?”

“When I got mine,” repeats Benny, wrapping Dean’s hand back around the impressive shaft of his cock. “Been a couple’a years but I still remember.”

“Wait, you—” Dean balks, confused. Squeezes his hand with Benny’s own (warm, biological) still directing him. “This—you—it’s not…?”

Benny laughs out loud. “You’re such a doll.” And, “What do you think these are?”

Dean gawps, only partially paying attention to Benny pointing at the barely visible scars just below his tits.

“I— _everyone_ has scars, I didn’t—?”

Benny says, “Dean,” with enough softness for Dean to feel mocked, for him to open his mouth to keep defending himself. But he gets his face cupped by Benny’s hands instead, gets his mouth kissed instead.

Hears, “Dean,” and, “you’re the most precious boy in this galaxy, do you even know?”

Dean is indefinitely grateful that he’s still got his hand on Benny’s dick, because that surely is the only thing stopping Benny from kissing him until they both die.

There’s too much spit, too much heat between their faces. Back on their sides, face-to-face, Dean keeps jacking the guy off while Benny hauls one of Dean’s legs over his hip to get back at his ass. Strokes him there with three broad fingers and Dean hums his approval into that mouth, against those teeth.

“You gon’ let me in here?” against Dean’s upper lip; impatient tap of three of those violent fingers and Dean’s barely done nodding by the time they’re pushing into his mouth.

A few laps of his tongue later and they’re gone, and Dean licks at the smear in the corner of his mouth and Benny’s tongue meets him there, and his fingers are back between Dean’s legs and Dean blinks his eyes open with the push-in, with Benny’s cock dribbling plentiful in the tight circle of his fist.

Which he feels, by the way. The heat, the skin, the slick; all of it.

A garbled something worms up his throat—he swallows it.

Benny’s looking back at him, now. Observes him.

“Feels good?”

Dean nods, empty; shivers with a fresh wave of goosebumps, the insistent push of that digit into the secret heat of his insides.

Benny pumps his finger ever-so-slightly, and Dean feels his mouth twitching.

“I wanna come with you spread on three of these.”

Dean’s cock shouldn’t be able to be hard, or to blurt out another too-thick line of precome. There shouldn’t be any, period. Doesn’t seem to matter.

“Think you can do that?”

Dean croaks, “Fucking do it,” and gets his mouth eaten for it; another finger breaching him where he’s still too tight for the first.

He can’t withhold his groan this time.

Not with Benny bite-feasting on his throat, with the held-back force of that arm.

“Gods…”

Dean works his hand as best as he can, against the overwhelming distraction. The amount of sensation, of need, is…

“Benny…”

“’M here,” licked kisses over Dean’s tongue; faintest taste of copper. “’M here.”

“More,” he groans. “Gimme more, fuck, I…”

Benny chuckles hot, crooks his fingers criminally deep inside Dean’s clenched ass. Dean yelps, surprised by the simultaneous flat-handed slap to his ass.

“Open up, then.”

“Fuck.” Slurred, skin-muffled. “Fuck, _fuck_ …”

“You gonna come on that?”

A frustrated whine.

Benny smirks against Dean’s spit-drenched cheek. “I’m so close, brother.”

“Do it, just do it,” and Dean gives his best; wrangles his second hand down there as well to work Benny’s balls, too, and Benny’s third finger is a fucking stretch, but he can’t say a word with how embarrassingly quick it’s shoved up his ass, all the way to the rough knuckles of Benny’s hand. “Fuck, _fuck_ —”

Benny’s hips surge forward as he begins to unload. As he seizes and crushes into Dean’s stomach like a freight train; two-fifty of muscle and Dean makes gut-sounds with how deep Benny sinks his teeth, his fingers.

Nearly a cry, if Benny wasn’t slapping his hand across Dean’s mouth in time.

So they hold onto each other, trembling, until it’s over.

Until Benny’s muscles relax, soften, and Dean gasps in relief for those jaws unclenching from his throat. The hand still on his face slides three of its fingers into the wetness of his mouth, and his eyes drift close as he sucks on them.

“Gods almighty,” grumbles Benny, out of breath, never out of words. “That mouth of yours.”

Dean tries to speak around those fingers, something along the lines of a proposition what Benny could do to it next time, and Benny can’t logically have understood it but he groans, retreats his hand to replace it with his face instead, the slick warmth of his mouth.

Hand back on Dean’s ass, slapping at it again, hard; grinds his knuckles deep with the other and Dean grunts, caught.

“Fuck, pull them out.”

“You sure? Didn’t come yet.”

Dean grits, “Hundred percent,” and sighs in relief once Benny’s executed that order, dutiful as ever.

They catch their breath, inches apart.

Dean takes awareness of Benny smirking at him, barks, “What?” and Benny muses, “Nothin’, nothin’.”

“Don’t laugh at me, you just jizzed all over my hand.”

“No, jus’—” Benny laughs, delirious. “Literally nobody would believe me if I told ’em—you, in _my_ bed. Dean Winchester, out of all beds in this solar system.”

Dean is still not done feeling mocked as Benny smothers him in more kisses. Pulls him close for a too-sweaty, too-warm hug that Dean generously lets escalate into full-body cuddles.

Benny swoons, “I’m the luckiest bastard alive,” and Dean is too comfortable to argue over that.

~

People hurry past—they have things to do, lives to live.

Dean Winchester looks after them and fidgets with the bottle of water clenched in his hands.

Head to his left. To his right.

The sun beams down. The air is moist. He forgot how the weather is around here. Always dry, back home.

… Home.

That he’d have that. Ever.

Benny’s touch startles him hard and he snaps, “LORDS,” and feels horrible for yelling at the guy even as he does it. Has been sweating already, before, but feels drenched now.

Hears Benny apologize and rubs the back of his metal hand over his forehead and draws a tight sigh for the (still) (always) foreign sensation of that metal.

“Sorry,” he tries. Benny puts an arm around him, smiles at him, barely stunted by the uncalled-for aggression.

“Streets’re crammed this type-a hour.”

Dean nods, “Yeah,” and peers back out. His skin crawls underneath the borrowed clothes.

Benny raises the bags of purchases. “Got us all the goodies so we can head back in.”

It’s charming, served with a daring grin and Dean half-laughs for it, all polite. Needs help to stagger back to his feet, parked in the stairway that leads up into the apartment complex Benny resides in these days. So much alike so many of those places Dean and his brother lived in—alike on a level that merges everything into a shade of anonymity you couldn’t flesh out if you tried but leaves you with a kind of…hunch of familiarity.

Nothing too personal. Nothing too close or memorable.

Just a…feeling.

Dean Winchester looks down the street, over the heads of all those people, those strangers. Species patchworked into a scrambling mass of bodies and limbs. Nobody would bat an eye if something happened. Dean wouldn’t be able to identify anyone.

A tug, a, “You wanna sit out here for another bit?” but Dean allows to be helped back upstairs without another word.

Time crawls by. A day, two. Three, maybe. Cas comes over on day three, he thinks.

“You seem well,” notes his captain (with a reasonable amount of surprise in his tone).

Benny not-jokes, “He’s certainly getting fed,” and Cas chuckles all appreciative while Dean stealth-ducks away from Benny’s hand. Gets his cheek thumbed at, though, and puts his chin into his hand, elbow on the table.

The smell of coffee overtakes the entire tiny apartment. Overtakes Dean’s tiredness and Cas’ nervosity.

“How’s Sam?”

“Oh, fine. Perfectly fine.”

Dean’s said, “I bet,” before he can stop the words. Takes a sip of coffee to wash that damn sarcasm down and tries not to notice Cas’ defeated, thin smile.

“Have you thought about when you will come back home?”

“Why, something happened?”

“No, just… It’s odd when you’re not there.”

Benny cleans the dishes with stressed ‘disinterest’ in their conversation.

Dean scratches at his bitten-to-hell neck, up into his hair. Sighs. “I dunno, Cas.”

“Don’t get me wrong—if this makes you happy, right now? Please, absolutely, do take as much time as you need. Sometimes, distance can be healing. I have been there before.” A scoff; nirvana-stare into the cup. “Lords, have I been there.”

Dean chuckles. It’s tough to stay all stoic, being faced with this softie.

“He told me. About your fight.”

“Told you he punched me in the fucking face?”

“Yes,” says Cas, “and he has been terribly shaken up about it, even though he tries not to lay it onto me.”

“Yeah, sounds like him.”

“He wouldn’t like me telling you this.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And I know you knew anyway.”

“Positive.”

Cas frowns, upset, into his coffee. Looks like he made some effort to look only halfway disheveled today, brushed his hair, maybe, and Dean has to crack a smile because, yeah, he misses him, too. Misses home, and Sam. Misses his old life—when things had a place he could point at, identify, verify.

But all that is gone, and Dean can’t take them down with him, spinning as he is.

Cas concludes, more to himself than Dean, “Your brother is byzantine, Dean Winchester,” and Dean can hear Benny chuckling for how honestly he’s laughing.

“He’s a handful.”

“A horrible handful who misses you. Incredibly, I must add; even more so than I do. But he refuses to be bribed and pleaded into contacting you, communicating with you, so I guess you two will have to wait it out until he gets over…himself. It.”

“Yeah, no, ‘himself’ is the word. Definitely ‘himself’.”

Again, “He misses you, Dean,” and Dean is helpless for that kind of foolery. “Don’t think he doesn’t. Don’t think he doesn’t eat his own nails with how he’s worried out of his goddamn mind for you.”

“You can tell him his brother’s doing perfectly fine. Without being slapped around and being yelled at, that is.”

Cas snorts. When did he sneak his hand onto Dean’s?

“Could get used to this,” muses Dean, who grants a subtle glance over to Benny, who isn’t eyeing him per se, but who Dean imagines going just a little softer, over by the sink.

Doesn’t take long for them to get back on track as soon as Cas is out the door. For them to sink back into kisses, into bed. Laying down doesn’t seem like such a horrible prospect anymore, thanks to the new circumstances.

Benny teases, “You two are adorable together,” while he swindles Dean out of his tee.

Dean mumbles, “Huh?” against that beard; hand on that button-fly like gravity. “Shut up,” once he makes sense of the words, lets his head drop back for Benny to kiss his neck.

Canines on the sore marks and, softly, “You don’t mind that he saw?” and Dean heats that little more—because gods, yeah, he absolutely fucking minds, but how was he gonna hide those?

He looks like a goddamn chew toy at this point.

“’S not like we’re married,” he says, stupidly, and rubs his hand down the insistent swell of Benny’s still-but-not-much-longer-clothed cock with emphasis.

“You an’ him? Or me an’ you?”

“I mean—both?”

Dean watches Benny straightening himself over him, up on his knees and pulling his shirt off himself. One hand between those legs, the other pushes up that stomach, over that chest.

Benny layers his palm over the back of Dean’s hand. Smiles down, already dreamy.

“I kinda wanna meet ’im. Your brother.”

Dean scoffs.

“You think he’ll like me?”

“You _met_ him,” points out Dean, who gets blanketed, kissed. He kneads at a tit, Benny’s hand still clutching back at him.

Benny jokes, “I doubt that being in the same room counts as ‘meeting’,” and Dean struggles to pull his hand back out between their now squished against each other’s crotches. He makes an according face and Benny hums for, “Sorry,” and Dean doesn’t hold that grudge. Not now.

Drifting, kissing. Tug on his hair, buttons biting at his cock where it’s oh-so thinly covered by this one pair of pants Benny somehow managed to dig out when the doorbell caught them by surprise. Dean cannot fathom how there is any clean piece of clothing left in this place, at this point.

“Sit on my face?”

“Lords.”

“Don’t think I can offer much else right now,” croaks a stupidly-sore Dean, but Benny’s already wrestling himself out of his pants and grits, “Yeah, fuck. Lords, Dean.”

Dean gets a brief moment to mock-laugh at him before the guy’s already straddled his chest, knees to either of Dean’s ears and he peers up, past the tight grip of fist on cock.

Benny looks positively destroyed. Like they never were interrupted.

“Front or back?”

“You pick,” flirted prompt, one hand worming its way through spread legs to rub over a taint, an asshole.

Dean would crane his neck to mouth at that cockhead if his abs weren’t screaming in terror at the sheer _thought_.

Luckily, Benny’s got him covered.

“Lords,” mutter-groaned again and Dean closes his eyes, fingers still working while Benny pushes into his mouth, the back of his throat. Bulges him out, here, and Dean tips his head more, gives him more space.

“Lords, your _mouth_.”

Dean twists his wrist; doesn’t miss that tremble. That audible smirk.

“Your _everything_ ,” corrects Benny.

Dean hollows his cheeks in reward.

The bed creaks gently with Benny’s lazy efforts. Moves slow, controlled, as if Dean was gonna tap out. Dean hums, deeply gone in the moment. Plays his fingers dry until Benny spits in his own hand, reaches behind himself to supply.

Benny shivers oh-so sweetly on two fingers; four.

Has to keep his hips in line with that much more strain, now, while Dean remains available. Legs spread, he’s so fucking hard himself.

His free hand curls around the back of Benny’s thigh just to stay occupied.

“If you ever wanna…y’know.”

Benny fucks his throat in long, even strokes now one hand braced on the wall. Leaves enough control for Dean to grind his fingers where he needs them, counter rhythmic.

Benny finishes, “Just say the word.” Gritted, love-sick. “I’m so, _so_ fucking here for it.”

Dean would reply something like _yeah sure_ or _maybe another time_ if he had the physical chance. Is glad that he doesn’t, though, and Benny probably wouldn’t have said what he said if he hadn’t already known the answer.

Dean knows desperation. Grew up on it. Can taste it ten miles down the wind.

Can’t let the frustration get a grip on him, though, or else…

“Can you…? Fuck. _Fuck_ …”

Crook his fingers harder? Bang him out deeper? Fucking sure.

Benny’s an easy read. Rides Dean’s face, at this point, sloppy and stutter-y and Dean’s breathing on auto-pilot, can hold his hand still, basically, and let the guy fuck himself on his hand. Metal’s coming in handy for fucking once.

Trembled, “Dean,” and a hand in Dean’s hair. Benny snaps tight around his fingers, shoots deep down his throat, buried to the hilt and pulsing in place; caught.

Dean lets him—ride it out. Take what he needs.

Dean gives what he can.

They’re both cuddlers, which doesn’t aid the fact that, aside from food, there is no true incentive for leaving the bed. So easy to just kiss and sleep and wake up in those arms and fall asleep on top of a chest.

Is this how Sam felt, back when they were kids? Safe and cared for? Spoiled?

This will have to end, eventually. If Dean wants to keep going. When Benny runs out of savings, has to do another quick but rough line of labor; check back in with the garrison. God, the garrison.

It’s not like he’s useless—barely a human out there without some kind of biotech replacing where their biology just didn’t make the cut. Plenty of Dean’s crewmates have prosthesis’ and they’re doing just fine with ’em. Better, in some ways, because of course technology trumps something as weak as a human limb (or organ).

It dawns on him during these calm, reclusive days, that his body will recover. That it will overcome this, easily. Doc took excellent care of him. He’s healed. All it takes is to work himself back from the immense muscle loss, and he’s got the tools—Dad’s training regime, and he’d supply more if Dean would only ask.

It dawns on him that, unfortunately, there are other parts of him that he will not ever regain.

That these new, painful ways and thoughts and feelings won’t leave him. That they are fused with him, irrevocably. That he will have to deal with them and learn how to cope with them.

If Dean wants to keep going.

It’s raining.

Dean’s on his back, head turned so he can watch. Benny snores next to him, and Dean wonders if he should wake him. What a rare sight.

Dean hefts himself to the window, and everything hurts. He washed up earlier today but there’s a level of grime he doesn’t seem to be able to shake off. That lethargic sensation in every joint, every muscle. Mere feet, and he’s breathing heavy.

His arms shake as they hold him up, metal hands on the windowsill and the sight is so queer—liquid, falling from the sky, drenching the streets, the rooftops. Dirt from weeks (months) turns all rivulets into muck, all that sand and exhaust fumes.

Dean exerts himself to wrestle the window open and is rewarded with an immediate, damp rush of air. The scent is indescribable—fresh and decaying at the same time and he gulps it down; greedy, fascinated.

Sam would love this.

Cas, too, probably.

People hurry off the street to protect themselves from the downpour. Dean leans out the window until it hits the top of his head, floods down his face.

His elbows warn him that they’re about to give out—please lay back down?

Just another moment, he thinks,

as he’s grabbed around his middle and yanked backwards, into the room, onto the floor.

Benny’s screaming at him, “What are you DOING?!” strangling him in his too-tight grip and Dean huffs, pale, as his stomach drops.

“I was, just…”

Again, “What are you _doing_?” softer, pained, and Dean is too paralyzed to pet back at Benny pulling him up against himself, chest to back, holding on.

“I didn’t mean to,” he says, weakly. He can’t feel his face.

The rain drops from his head into his lap. Over Benny’s arms, his own hands.

Dean tries, “Look, it’s raining.”

~

Benny frowns as he thinks.

Dean flexes his foot in Benny’s hands for him to at least pick the massage back up.

Eventually, the conclusion: “I doubt it’s comparable.”

“Better? Worse?”

Benny snorts, circles his thumbs into Dean’s sole. “Prolly better. But jus’ because it feels _right_ , now.”

“You ever think about how things would have gone if you hadn’t gone through with it?”

“No, sugar, I don’t,” says Benny, without further thought, and Dean reciprocates that smile. “Now be a doll and gimme the other, yeah?”

Dean makes an effort to lift his legs accordingly. Flops down like he worked out as soon as his other foot has nestled into the warmth of Benny’s hands, and he chuckles along just because he’s so fucking grateful Benny doesn’t tease him, ever.

Dean peers at the man across his own, heaving chest. The lines of his face in the soft light. The sheer tenderness despite Benny’s impressively muscled body.

“You ever wanted kids, Benny?”

“Could still have ’em. Had a bunch of my eggs frozen, Feds are keeping ’em for me over on T-O-8009. But all plans kinda went out the window with Andrea, y’know.”

“Huh.”

No eye contact. Careful, “You?” obviously unsure if him asking back is why Dean even addressed this in the first place.

Dean surely doesn’t fucking know either. Shrugs and repeats, “Huh,” and ends up adding, timidly, “Maybe. I dunno.” Smiles, lopsided, because he has to. “But I guess that’s out of the question now, isn’t it?”

“Well, they can still work with your stem cells.”

“Not the same.”

“Maybe not, but it would be a _way_.” Eyes for Dean, now. Gentle, and Dean almost doesn’t feel patronized.

Dean thuds his heel into Benny’s stomach to ease the tension. “So, she would have carried out your egg?”

Benny hums, “Yeah,” eyes back on his task.

“Awesome.”

“Pretty much.” Benny’s so good at this—touching, and talking, and not-talking. Rubs at the top of Dean’s metal foot now, up his calf and ponders, “You gonna do mine, now?” and Dean wonders if he might get away with a messy blowjob instead.

Claire. If she misses her daddy, right now? If she’s even old enough to understand they’re related, given how far apart they have been most of her short life?

Sam knew. But Dad was there more often when they were little, and he had Dean to constantly remind him, show him holograms and diaries.

If Cas keeps diaries? Does he keep anything?

_“Hey.”_

“Hey.”

Silence.

“You called just to hear me breathe, or?”

_“Don’t make me hang up on you, asshole.”_

Dean scoffs. Leans against the wall, closes his eyes. Imagines Sam doing the same. How he must have hyped himself up to do this; maybe Cas is nearby for emotional support. God, what a joke.

Sam tries, _“Look,”_ and Dean can hear him frown. Can feel him pressed up against him if he tries hard enough, if he focuses on the stout tone of that voice. _“Look, you need to come back home. It’s Cas’ birthday tomorrow.”_

“Not his real birthday,” reminds Dean, who’s heard the according story before.

_“It’s your fault I never learned how to cook for shit, so would you come back and do something nice for him?”_

Dean’s mouth perks into a grin. “You gonna ask nicely?”

_“You want me to talk you off, that’s three grand an hour.”_

“No friends and family discount?”

_“I **will** hang up on you.”_

Dean laughs. Sam doesn’t, of course.

_“Dean, you know I’m fucking sorry, so please stop being a fucking mopey fat little child and come back home, okay?”_

“You miss me, big boy?”

 _“Cas misses your ass waiting for him in the kitchen, fixing some goddamn supper,”_ and Dean’s had just about enough desperation meddled into that tone.

So he grants, “All right,” and, “I’m still crippled though so how ’bout you—”

Sam cuts him off, _“Great,”_ and the line disconnects.

Dean holds the communicator away from himself to look at it.

Confused by the silence (apartment’s fucking tiny), Benny inquires, “What happened?”

Dean informs, hesitantly, “He… I think he hung up on me,” and Benny laughs at him from the kitchen.

It’s time. Time to get back on track, time to stop drowning himself in misery. Sam and Cas and Benny and the garrison, they all deserve better than having to tip-toe around Dean and his stupid issues. They deserve to have him back without having to carry him along each and every inch of the way.

Benny does his very best not to look disappointed, or sad. Dean didn’t make any promises.

Pulls Benny into a hug, though, moments before Cas is supposed to pick him up. Holds him so tight he wonders how his sad excuses of arms are even doing it, and Benny holds him back just as hard.

Cups the back of his neck as they peel apart, forehead to forehead now, and Dean might never leave this place if he kissed him right now, so he doesn’t.

Benny smiles, understanding. “See you around, chief.”

~

“You are kidding me.”

Cas insists, “I tried,” but Dean remains cold, turns to face his captain.

“You are _kidding_ me.”

Is told, “Believe me, I _tried_ ,” and sighs, painedly.

The house is a goddamn mess.

No rotting food out in the open, sure, but how can two people drag so much dirt inside in a mere couple of days?

Okay, a week. Maybe two. Wait—how long again had Dean been gone?

“Do me a favor and get some coffee going, okay?” says Dean as he shrugs out of an unfamiliar shirt (“I got this for you,” never sounds comforting out of Cas’ mouth, somehow) and begins to pick up dishes, cutlery.

“You don’t have to. If it bothers you, I will ask Sam to help me once he returns.”

“Cas?”

“Yes?”

Dean stresses, “ _Coffee_ ,” and does his best not to topple over as he squats down to pick something up.

Eyes back up to his captain, Dean, for a first time, sees something like _fear_ in that face.

“I’ll take breaks, all right? Lords. Calm down.”

Cas manages to whip up some caffeine for Dean’s first break, five minutes in. The break lasts ten minutes. After another three minutes of work, he’s back at the kitchen table. Hunched in on himself, swimming in sweat, he hates himself. Sips coffee and self-pity and Cas is too good of a guy to outright baby him. Has taken over the dishes, wipes them clean. Could’ve done this very thing before picking up Dean, easily, but it seems like Sam and him are an even better match than Dean had anticipated.

“You are very pale. Would you like to eat something? Just a little something.”

“’M fine.” Dean speaks into his hand after wiping it across his face.

Cas puts the rag down to give him a stern look. Then, “Let me help you to your room, at least.”

“Fine. Fine!”

After all that dropped weight, Cas doesn’t struggle as much anymore with heaving him across the small distance Dean couldn’t have managed without him. Crawling, maybe. Then again, the floor’s just as good as any other surface to pass out on for a minute or two.

Cas comments, “Careful,” and maybe he’s talking to himself, there. Drapes Dean onto his futon and that’s just like he left it in that hurry. Untouched, his entire room. Cas cracks a window open and drops right back down to Dean’s side.

Dean groans for the added warmth. Couldn’t push Cas off, even if he wanted. His eyes slip closed on their own account.

Cas breathes him in, forehead to Dean’s temple, one arm thrown across Dean’s chest. Holding on. Feeling.

Close-close, “I missed this,” and Dean hums in agreement, pats Cas’ thigh.

“Easy, bud.”

“Am I too heavy?”

“Nah. Stupid old man.”

Cas chortles. Dean smiles.

~

The sun is halfway through setting by the time they wake. Stirring and tangled limbs, sour mouths.

Cas’ chest hair against Dean’s cheek. Fingers that pet through his hair, dance over his ear.

“Hmm.”

“Hm?”

“You smell like him.”

“Naturally,” comments Cas. “Or, maybe, he smells like me?”

“Nah, definitely like him.” Dean tugs that neckline even lower; nose to sternum. Constellations carved in here, letters that don’t make sense if he doesn’t focus on them—like randomly fallen leaves, grains, on the tanned span of Cas’ skin.

He traces shapes with his fingers.

Hears, “You smell different, too.”

Dean scoffs. “Smell of someone with decent hygiene.”

“I’m glad for you two.” Tip-tip-tap over the bruises littered on Dean’s neck. Rubbed, just to make Dean shiver bone-deep. “Glad for you in particular.”

Dean teases, “Not jealous?” and peeks up for extra effect, finds Cas grinning at him for it.

“Only a little bit.”

Dean chuckles in triumph. Settles his head back down, pulls the two of them tighter together. One hand down Cas’ hip, and Cas keeps petting through his hair. Gods, it’s nice.

“Did you enjoy yourself?”

Dean hums.

“That is good. I’m happy for you.” More pets. “He seems like a patient partner.”

“Oh, yeah.” Dean yawns. Feels his dick stirring, faintly, at the topic and the body contact. Fucking spoiled indeed at this point. He smiles, to himself, for the memories.

“Are you gonna see him again?”

“Sure. At the garrison, at least.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Mayhaps,” ponders Dean, who doesn’t miss the pets edging into scratches. Cas’ thigh deliberately flexes against the fill of his cock. “Why, I gotta ask for your permission?”

Cas laughs, dangerously low.

Flat hand on the back of Dean’s head, holding him.

“I do not have that kind of authority.”

~

Sam’s demeanor doesn’t make sense until Dean realizes that Cas didn’t tell him.

(Out of courtesy? Decided that if Dean wanted him to know he’d explain it personally?)

So, there’s Dean, now, feeling like a fucking neon sign in an otherwise demure, unlit street with his Benny-sized mouth-work marks. The brand of his sins—fucking gods, like it’s _Dean_ who somehow mistreated some unspoken vow of fidelity; like Sam’s not gonna hop on Cas’ dick the second they’re alone for the night.

Dean’s equal parts pissed and humiliated and doesn’t address the issue. Neither does Sam.

(Sam must have known, probably. Must have, right? Kid’s always so fucking clever; you can’t tell Dean he didn’t put two and two together in _this_ case, too.

If Sam expected him to keep to himself all his life, he may be even more delusional than Dean himself.)

Seated by the stove, Dean observes the two idiots. Stirs the celebratory stew (Sam got the fancy mushrooms and literally nothing else that could build a meal other than stew, but Cas, as always, is humble) while Cas unwraps his present. Sam sure grew up without adding to his gift-wrapping skills.

Gasped, “Sam.”

Dean can’t see what it is from over where he’s sitting, and Cas doesn’t hold it up right away. Just sits there, in awe; long enough for Sam to get uncomfortable right there in Cas’ lap.

“It’s enchanted,” he mumbles, tucks some hair behind his ear (uselessly).

Dean inquires, “What is it?” and Cas picks the object up with ridiculous amounts of care.

A necklace; one heavy-looking pendant.

Dean says, “Huh,” or some other polite equivalent.

Sam looks rightfully ashamed. Counted on presenting the gift without Dean present, maybe, but then again Dean would have seen it eventually.

Cas rambles out loud, fascinated, “This looks a lot like the one you have, Dean, doesn’t it?”

Dean lies, “A little,” and catches Sam’s eyes before they pan away in humiliation.

You can’t tell Dean that there aren’t more diverse fucking pendants in this galaxy.

“It’s beautiful.”

Cas threads his head through the necklace immediately. The pendant—face-shaped but upside-down, different horns, holes where the eyes would be—nestles with the others in the too-deep neckline of his shirt.

“Wonderful,” expands Cas, one hand on the pendant and one on Sam’s shoulder. Beams up at Sam’s little brother, in Dean’s peripheral. “Thank you, Sam.”

“It’s not even for protection, this time.”

“No?”

“‘Good decision making.’” Sam’s fingers substitute Cas’ on the pendant. “Helps you stick to your gut instinct.”

“Oh, he needed _that_ one.”

Cas laughs, all belly.

They feast, drink, smoke. All out of curtesy, Sam doesn’t climb back into Cas’ lap, but Dean’s got fair suspicion that at least one of his feet is touching Cas.

They’re fucking adorable, and Dean hates it.

Sam’s casualty and bluntness and how relaxed he is (especially after the pipe). So fucking exquisite with the too-sharp lines of his almost-grownup face, the smear of black under his eyes. How Cas, at first sight, looks so inadequate with his rumpled everything; the unkempt beard and unwashed face but gods, the grace in his hands, the kindness they touch everything with—Sam’s hand, his cutlery, Sam’s pipe. The noble line of his nose, his choice of words—like he borrowed this body and took it on a wild trip through too many worlds.

“I was thinking of visiting their graves the other day,” announces Cas, and he looks at Sam first, at Dean later. “You can come with, if you’d like. I fear this is the only way of introducing you.”

“Is there, like, one big place for your entire clan, or?”

Cas takes another hit and nods. “Mausoleum.”

“Wow.”

“Yes.” Cas makes a face. “You don’t have to come. It _is_ rather eerie.”

“I’d love to,” says Sam, of course. Thoughtful, “If that’s all right with you,” and Cas smiles at him in appreciation.

“I _did_ invite you, angel.”

All eyes on Dean.

Who’s still calculating. Who hesitates.

“I’m honored, you know I am,” he tries. Cas nods gently and understanding even before he adds his dumb excuse. “I just think that we shouldn’t leave the house all by itself, y’know? In case Dad comes back and needs help. Also, I’m kind of, still—y’know.”

“It is quite the journey,” agrees Cas. “You are right. Maybe another time, once your recovery has advanced further.”

Dean tells him, “Yeah, I’d like that,” and Cas’ smile grows a little fonder for it.

A distant, high-pitched beeping reaches them.

Their heads turn.

Down the corridor, from one of their rooms.

They look at each other.

“Did you…?”

“Maybe it’s Dad?”

Sam gets up. “I’ll go get it.”

“Yes, thank you.”

Left behind, Dean and Cas look at each other, confused.

Eventually, “Would John…?” and Dean replies, pale, “Only for emergencies.”

His stomach tightens as his brain spirals down down down; his skin prickles. Would he be able to help? To do anything about _anything_?

Murmurs, down the hall. (Dean can barely hear a thing over the blast of blood in his ears.) Then, Sam’s hollered: “It’s a—woman? Never seen her.”

Cas’ eyes pop wide and he jumps up, sprints down the hall.

Amelia.

Something with the kid?

Dean follows as fast as his sore legs will take him; he nearly falls, twice.

He arrives to Sam and Cas, on their knees on the floor, huddled close together over the holograph communicator.

A woman, long blonde hair—a toddler, laughing, high-pitched.

Dean exhales. Sinks down next to them, sweating.

_“Can you say ‘happy birthday’, Claire? Come on, say ‘happy birthday, Daddy’.”_

Claire tries, but it’s hard through the giggles. Amelia joins in on the latter before she breaks into the song anew, solo, with Claire cajoling along in broken language. She tries hard (and loud) to mimic whatever sounds her parent manages to magically produce with her throat.

_“We love you, Cas.”_

_“Love you, Daddy!”_

_“Yeah, we love Daddy, don’t we? Say ‘bye-bye, Daddy’. Bye-bye!”_

Claire waves, fast and excited. Her blonde hair falls into her face; Amelia tucks it behind her ear for her.

Amelia presses a kiss to the top of the child’s head and the image tilts as she reaches forward to stop the recording.

The hologram vanishes.

The room is silent again, dark.

Dean supplies, eventually, carefully, “That’s—did you give her the number? ’Cause that’s a secure connection, and, uhm—”

“I did not,” mutters Cas.

Sam asks, “You think they’re okay?”

“Yes, she. She does that, sometimes.”

Cas fumbles with the device until it plays the message again.

_“Hey, Cas. Claire and I wanted to say hi. It’s your birthday today, isn’t it?”_

_“Happy birthday, Daddy!”_

Cas drags the communicator back to the kitchen; the brothers are caught in the same, uncomfortable silence. Neither of them is used to Cas ignoring them, and they exchange worried glances back and forth.

Another replay. Another.

“Hey, uh—Cas? You okay, bud?”

“What? Yes. Of course.” Cas doesn’t look away from the hologram.

Dean gives Sam a pregnant look, but Sam looks just as helpless as him, shrugs his shoulders and fidgets with his pipe.

It goes on like this for another bunch of replays. Dean’s pretty sure he could mouth along at this point but feels like it would be out of place to do so. Begins to feel tired, now, and it _is_ late, isn’t it?

He sighs, stretches.

Sam’s tense. Watches Cas’ closely, who hasn’t moved except for navigating the communicator’s menu since he sat down. The device is tightly clutched in his hands.

“ _Say ‘bye-bye, Daddy’. Bye-bye!”_

Cas doesn’t immediately hurry to watch it again, this time.

Just sits there, and maybe that’s worse.

Under Dean’s worried eyes, Sam puts a careful hand to Cas’ arm. Tries, “Babe?” and Cas blinks, heavily.

He sighs very, very quietly.

“I will replace this,” hears Dean, and he opens his mouth to say something to prevent what he understands is about to happen, but Cas has already cracked the communicator in two over his knee.

The snap of electronics is foreign and startling, like the too-sudden snap of a finger, and it’s over even faster than it came. Like it never happened.

Cas places the broken device on the table in front of him without looking up from it.

“…Apologies.”

“It’s all right, Cas.”

“I…shouldn’t have—”

“No, you’re right. It’s safer. Don’t worry.”

“We’ll just get a new one. I’ll tell Dad I stepped on it or something.”

“I will replace it,” repeats Cas. Looks up at Dean, at Sam; finally. Dean wishes he didn’t. “I am responsible for this. I will replace it.”

Dean tells him, “Okay.”

“How are you feeling?”

“I am fine,” prompts Cas. “I am fine.”

Cas gladly accepts the pipe from Sam’s fingers. Reaches for the matches to light the thing and puts on an expression that makes Dean look away from him.

Lower, heavier, “I am fine, thank you,” and Dean rubs his new hand through his hair just to have an excuse to move at all.

~

The marks fade until they’re gone, and Sam and him haven’t talked, and they won’t.

“Dude,” grunts Dean, “it’s like four fucking AM.”

_“Did I wake you?”_

“Fuck you.”

Benny’s laugh sounds hollow through the communicator.

Dean rolls to his side. “What is it?” Voice low so he doesn’t wake the others next-door. “You all right?”

 _“No, brother.”_ Before Dean can freak out entirely: _“Think my heart is broken.”_

Dean squints into the darkness. “Are you drunk?”

Benny snorts.

“Great, Imma hang up now.”

_“I haven’t heard from you in weeks.”_

Dean’s anger wavers at the sobriety in that voice.

_“Just wanted to check if you’re even still alive.”_

“At four AM.”

_“Any other time you’d rather ignore me calling you?”_

“Benny…”

Benny admits, _“Just wanted to hear your voice again,”_ and Dean can picture him. At the tiny kitchen table, boxed in. Cup of coffee in front of him, maybe. Some ethanol in there, somewhere. _“Is that too much to ask?”_

Dean deflates. Stretches, laid out on his back now. “Time’s been fucking boring, so I don’t exactly have anything to talk about. So, sue me for not updating you on—fucking _nothing_.”

_“Boring is good. Boring means nobody’s getting worse.”_

“You are so drunk.”

_“The only reason you’re not drunk as well is that you were sleeping until two minutes ago.”_

Dean grunts, endearing.

_“Hm. Love it when you do that.”_

“What, laugh at your insolence?”

 _“Yeah,”_ smile-sweet. _“You, laughing, in general.”_

“What kinda call is this, huh?”

_“What kinda call do you want it to be?”_

Dean warns, “Benny,” but smiles. Is glad Benny can’t see him.

And there it is, _“I miss you,”_ and Dean can’t be mad. Can’t be much else than uncomfortable and pitiful and there’s an odd twist to his insides, too. He doesn’t like the latter, not at all.

“Cute.”

_“Don’t make fun of me.”_

“I’m not. You’re cute.”

Benny chuckles. _“Love how you flirt. Like everything’s a fight to you, ain’t it?”_

“I’m not _flirting_ with you, I’m trying to make you end this call so I can fucking _sleep_. Is it working?”

 _“Negative,”_ and Dean’s smile widens further, unseen. _“Wish I could see you right now. You still in bed?”_

“Where else would I be?”

_“True, true.”_

A moment of consideration; Dean waits it out, patiently.

_“Your beaming device is one-way only, right?”_

Dean croaks, “Yeah,” and Benny curses softly under his breath.

_“I could go over to base, pick you up.”_

“It’s still four fucking AM, Benny.”

_“So what?”_

“I can’t slip out of the house in the middle of the night, man; they’ll freak.”

_“Write a note. They can read, right?”_

“I’m not misusing the garrison’s beaming connection just because you wanna get your dick wet.”

_“We can do other things. You know I’m flexible like that.”_

Dean scoffs. Licks his lip. “Need it that bad?”

_“Not it. You.”_

Dean scoffs harder.

Benny hums, _“It’s been weeks and I can’t stop thinking of you. ’S like you never left. I fear I’m in a bad way.”_

“Sounds like it.”

 _“You think of me as well? Things we got up to?”_ and Dean closes his eyes.

“Sure, yeah.”

_“Yeah?”_

“Yeah.” Memories on replay. A flurry of skin and low whispers; salt, Benny’s cologne.

_“Such as…?”_

“You want me to say it?” and Dean speaks even quieter. Doesn’t want to be heard, to be noticed. Just Benny and him. Shit, he’s getting hard.

Benny drawls, _“Have I ever not wanted anything you’d give?”_ and Dean chuckles, caught.

Tells him, “Miss you taking my hand.”

_“Lords.”_

“That time you held me down and nearly made me take your fist? Yeah, that too.”

Benny agrees, _“That **was** incredible.”_

“Nearly died.”

_“Nearly killed me, sugar. Always so good for me. Miss you going all soft, let me do what I want.”_

“Gods.” Dean rolls onto his stomach.

_“When you’d let me fuck your throat? Didn’t even fight it, not once.”_

“You let me breathe when I needed to, so.”

 _“I want that.”_ Rough, trembling around the edges. _“You hard right now?”_

“Yeah.” Hells yeah. “You?”

_“In my hand as we speak.”_

Dean laughs. “Fuck.”

 _“You sure you don’t wanna come over?”_ and Dean’s resistance wilts with the wet, full smack of skin on skin. Familiar, at this point. His mouth floods on instinct. _“Right here for you. All yours, beautiful.”_

Dean’s hips work him against the futon. “You’re not fair.”

 _“Of course not,”_ love-mumbled, dick-drunk. _“Can’t be. Not with you.”_

Dean orders, “Spit on it,” and nearly buries his face in his pillow when he hears Benny complying. “Fuck, that’s hot.”

_“Would be hotter with your mouth on it.”_

“Fuck, Benny, I can’t.”

_“Cannot or will not?”_

Pleading, “Benny,” and Benny chuckles low, understanding.

_“Rain check?”_

“Rain check,” murmurs Dean. Already close after weeks of absolutely nothing. Cross-eyed from rubbing himself off on his sheets; lords. Benny would love this.

 _“I’ll need you in my bed for at least a couple of days, though,”_ muses Benny, and they don’t need long to get both of them off, dreaming away like that with several light-years separating them.

~

“Can I come with?”

“Huh?”

“Like, on your walk?” Dean feels miserable, begging like this, imposing himself like this. Sam’s confused, unwilling face doesn’t help. “You’re going on your morning walk, right?”

“Meditation,” corrects Dean’s brother, who’s finished lacing up his boots and stands tall, filled-out and gorgeous and sleep-rough. Morning person though, so he doesn’t rip Dean’s head off straight away. Just looks at him, considers before he finally caves. “Yeah, I guess? Just try not to yap my ear off.”

Dean swears, “Silent as a grave.”

It takes a whole amount of time for him to make it down the stairs. Sam waits for him on ground level with his irritation fading into pity, which is worse.

“You sure you’re up for it?”

“Just gotta wake these puppies up.” Dean pats at his thigh, hunched over, panting. “Gimme a minute.”

So Sam waits while Dean catches his breath. The morning air is a different kind of warm—a beckoning.

“Okay,” decides Dean, and so they start walking.

Sam’s ahead, and it’s obvious he’s pacing himself to match Dean’s tempo. Won’t let him fall behind too far but doesn’t tease him for it, and Dean fucking wonders what the hell Cas’ been hammering into the kid’s head to make him this fucking docile.

Actually, don’t answer that.

The area isn’t too rough. Truly more of a walk than a hike. Sam turns and observes Dean’s struggles on the steeper parts, ready to jump in and catch him before he falls to his face, maybe. But Dean manages on his own. Is gonna spend the rest of the day in bed and recover, probably, but the exercise is essential, and there’s nothing quite as motivating as not giving in to your little brother carrying you back home.

No idea how much time has passed until Sam finally sets his little backpack down next to a bunch of conveniently arranged stones, but Dean’s sure ready for some rest time.

“Neat,” he comments, all out of breath (but not bravado).

Immediate, “I said to shut up,” and so Dean clicks his tongue, plants his ass on the ground. It’s best to stick to Sam’s rules if he was kind enough to announce them out loud in the first place.

Dean wipes his sweat away and watches his little brother setting up his space—herbs, and a bottle of water.

To his utter surprise, Dean gets the latter handed.

Sam grunts, “Hydrate,” and leaves him be.

Meditation is quiet. Peaceful in a creepy way, because Dean is aware this has to do with Sam’s magick crap even though it’s not obvious magick. No colors fly, no sparks or levitation. Just Sam, sitting cross-legged, mute, unmoving.

Which is rather peculiar if you witnessed him growing up kicking and spitting.

The calm, barely-there rhythm of his breath. The ridiculous width of his back; tattoos where he’s not covered by the little amount of clothes. He tied his hair up in a loose knot. His pierced ears. Silver, twinkling in slivers of sunlight.

He’s not a kid anymore, isn’t he?

Hasn’t been for a while.

Dean makes an effort of drinking as quietly as he can.

The first movements are deeper, more conscious breaths. Sam’s head drooping, tilting. He stretches, long and endless.

A soft, searching look back to Dean. The hint of surprise that he finds him watching him; the reminder, then, maybe, that Dean still exists.

Sam packs his shit back up, lights himself a pipe. Dean carries the bottle of water in his bare hands; it’s empty by now.

~

Push-ups against the wall, not even on his knees. This is the new standard. The new ‘normal’.

Dean burns.

His grip strength is phenomenal but irrelevant as long as his arms can neither push nor pull. Could dangle from a bar, maybe, but his shoulders would get wrecked; no way to stabilize them.

Dean takes walks. Dean does bodyweight exercises.

It’s his life, now, interlaced with hour-long rest. Days-long, if he gets too greedy, throwing himself back in the process and cursing himself.

He used to be good at pacing himself. Never knew what he had in the first place.

He eats extra but most of it cushions him out in fat instead of muscle. At least something, he thinks. He is over being skinny and weak and fading away.

“I’m fine,” and, “Just a second. Gimme a second.”

Cas gives him his privacy, turns to face the steep way they came up instead. Dean gulps for oxygen. His muscles scream back at him, drowning in battery acid.

They’ve been walking for maybe fifteen minutes, tops.

In Dean’s fuzzy peripheral, Cas produces his pipe from his pockets, begins to stuff it. “Y’know, my friend, I’ve been thinking.”

Dean grunts. “Oh yeah?”

“You have to promise not to get mad.”

Oh, great. “You managed to knock him up yet?”

Cas pointedly ignores the sarcasm. “I’ve been thinking about proposing, actually.”

“Ah.” A pause. “And?”

“And I wanted to talk about it with you.”

Dean frowns. “Why?”

Cas looks over at him, for once. Sighs. “Dean.”

“Look, I don’t care. You want my approval? Sure, whatever. Go ahead.”

“This is not my point.”

“If this is about money, man, you know I’m broke as all hell. I could ask Dad, maybe, but—”

“Dean.”

Dean exhales, thinly. Feels himself being tense, tenser than he’d like. He’s too tired for this. Cas should know better than going all touchy-feely with him at this point, shouldn’t he?

“Will you let me talk, please?”

Dean feels himself grimacing. Caves, because yeah, all right, and stands up straighter, shrugs.

They’re several feet apart. Warm wind twirls around them, embraces them. This high up, the sun beats down with even less mercy.

Dean doesn’t have a choice but to listen to him. It’s not like he can run from this.

“I want to talk about it with you, first thing. Because I’m aware that this is an utmost difficult situation and—you can scoff all you want, look at me when I talk to you. Dean, by the gods.”

“What?”

“I’m trying to be the good guy here—”

Dean barks, “He’s gonna say yes anyway, so what’s even the point?”

Cas’ lips purse tight to blow out the smoke. He clears his throat. “I don’t want to lose you. And neither does Sam. So, if you are against it…”

“Great! Just great. Thanks for that, really appreciate it.”

“We love you,” says Cas. “You know that.”

Dean fixes him with his glare.

Finds Cas so pointedly calm it makes his fury soar even higher.

“You’re such a freaking joke, you know that?”

“I am not joking.”

“Oh, I know, but that’s not what I said—what I said is that YOU’RE the joke, man,” and suddenly, he is up in Cas’ face and _boiling_. Spits, “You said you were gonna marry my brother, Castiel, and this is what you choose to tell me five fucking seconds later? Do you even HEAR yourself?”

“Love doesn’t have to be exclusive, Dean—”

“Maybe not in your world!”

Cas yells, “Will you be honest with yourself for one godforsaken second?!” and Cas _never_ yells, and nothing about any of this is Dean’s fault, and he doesn’t _want_ to be a fucking part of any of this.

Dean’s arm swings, and his fist connects.

Dean’s throat seizes with the shocked apology, a curse, something; anything.

Nothing comes out, and Cas stumbles backwards, doesn’t go down—steadies himself.

They stare at each other in shock, in anticipation.

Dean doesn’t (can’t) move.

Both their breaths rattle through the otherwise silent air. Cas’ eyes bore through Dean and Dean feels naked, feels flayed with all that hurt, that disappointment.

His captain doesn’t reprimand him. Doesn’t say anything at all.

So, Dean has to speak. “I don’t care. I don’t care what you do with him. Won’t make a difference. But don’t fucking drag me into this, Cas. Don’t.”

Cas’ face remains unchanged. Empty. Cold.

Dean claims, “I don’t need your pity,” and continues up the gravel path leading them higher up into the mountains. He can’t look back. Can’t bear to see Cas looking at him like that.

Cas follows him eventually, silently.

~

“Watch the back. Yeah, there you go.”

Dean shakes. Holds himself, and both Dad and him know he’d rather sprain something than give up under Dad’s administration.

“Release. Good work.”

He doesn’t collapse from his push-up like he would if he was alone. On all fours in the dirt, instead. Sweat drops from his brow to paint a circle in the dust. It is joined by another, and another.

A bottle appears in his line of sight.

“Drink.”

Dean does. Barefoot, on his haunches, he gazes out into the canyon. His clothes flutter around his body.

“How are you feeling?”

Dean turns to look at his father. Finds him soft and genuine, truly focused on Dean, and Dean feels guilty with this tender kind of attention. Any attention at all, really.

Dean tells him, honestly, “Beat.”

“No, you know what I mean.”

Dean licks his lip. Wipes the back of his hand across his forehead. Sighs.

Dad tells him, “You’ve been making insane progress. You can be proud of yourself.”

Dean scoffs.

“Am I not right?”

“’Course you’re right, Dad.”

“Not _your_ kinda right?”

Dean admits, “No,” and takes another sip. He shakes his head. “It’s just…” He pauses in hopes Dad will end the sentence for him. Dad doesn’t. He sighs, frustrated. “It fucks me up. I’m doing all I can and it’s still not enough.”

“Do you expect your body to just pop back into action like nothing happened?”

“’Course not.”

“Then why are you so hard on yourself?”

Dean murmurs, “Could still do more. Still be better,” and he hears John shifting and sighing next to him.

John Winchester sits down into the dirt, cross-legged. Even like this, he’s a mountain of a man; indestructible. But with his cheek now rested on his knuckles, his body hunched over, he looks tired. Came home from a nasty job and he still hasn’t talked. Usually about kids when it’s like this, and Sam and him learned early not to prod.

Dean apologizes, “I know it’s dumb.”

“Don’t say that.” Dad sounds gentle, quiet. Dean searches his face in desperate effort to understand him, what’s going through his head. John almost-cracks a smile. “You remind me of myself, s’all.”

Dean blooms on an intimate, childish level.

“I wish I had any good advice, son. I wish I had.”

“You’re doing all you can.”

“It’s nice to say that to someone, ain’t it?” John sighs. “How come it never feels right if we say it to ourselves?”

“I dunno.”

“When we lost your mother,” begins John, and Dean’s brain flicks a switch. Numbs him, just a little, so he can listen and be present but he’s not there, not really. “When we lost her, I was just where you are now. I didn’t know what to do. I split myself in half for everyone.”

Dean nods his head to show he’s listening.

“If it wasn’t for Sammy and you, I…well.”

Dad smiles in a way that makes Dean want to punch him. To run and hide and be angry at the world, at everything, everyone.

“But I did it. I survived. I fought, and I still fight. It’s what we do, us Winchesters. She would have done the same, and better.”

“There’s days I wake up and wish I hadn’t.”

Dad looks at him.

“It used to be every other day, so I guess that’s progress. But it still happens. And it scares the crap out of me. Or, worse: it _doesn’t_ scare me.”

There’s nothing in Dean.

Eyes up from the back of his hands and he meets John’s. Feels vulnerable in such a new shade, such a naked, humiliating one. Because Dad looks at him, and he looks _sad_.

Dean tries, “Is—that normal?” and his mouth goes for a smile; barely makes it halfway. “This is weird. Sorry.”

“It’s every day, at first.”

Dean holds the weight of those eyes. Can’t swallow or breathe.

“And then, it’s only every other day. Once every week. Every month.”

John speaks from a calm, deep place. A secret, Dean is sure of it.

Dad looks so brittle and old all Dean wants is to pull him into a hug.

“It’ll creep up on you. You won’t see it coming. You’ll be with your family, the people you love, and things will be all right, and yet, you’ll have days like that. But those, too, will pass, Dean.”

They don’t touch. Just them, out here, in the yard. With air and sun and dust and sand.

Dad says, “These things won’t make you tougher. You gotta do that part yourself, I fear,” and there’s just enough lightness, just enough tease in there for both of them to crack into one collective smile at the end of it.

Dean shivers in the heat, under his flat, short laughter.

~

First thing Dean’s brain fires is: panic.

Too many people. He knows them, each and every one of them; but still.

“So good to see you!”

“Been about time.”

“Welcome back, Dean.”

He smiles, boulders through—hug after hug after hug, and he’s sweating. They must see. Must notice. Nobody’s saying anything though, so maybe not. Maybe?

Benny doesn’t have a clever one-liner once it’s his turn, just pulls Dean in and holds him. Squeezes him so hard Dean slips almost-back into reality, the here and now. His hands are numb where he claws them into the back of Benny’s shirt.

His eyes are wide, hidden in Benny’s ever-endless chest.

“You’re all right,” hummed low and safe, and Dean takes a first full breath since his feet touched the base’s floor.

“Dean?”

Gentle hand between Dean’s shoulder blades. He turns away from Benny, towards Cas.

“Is everything all right?”

“’Course.”

“You are sweating.”

“I’m fine, Cas. Shut up.”

Cas gives him a dad look, but lets it go. “Five minutes.”

“Sure.”

A pat to his shoulder before Cas is gone.

Benny’s hand finds his lower back, soothes circles there.

Backed up against the wall, the garrison is more of a hive than anything else. Loud talking, laughter; something is moving, always, somewhere.

Dean’s gonna pass out.

Benny points out, “Lords, you’re paler than a ghost,” and Dean has about enough time to splutter, “Bathroom,” before he staggers, and then sprints.

He makes it just in time to empty his stomach _into_ the toilet.

It keeps coming, stirring him, wrenching him in its grip. He’s dizzy, holding on to the toilet for dear life.

He coughs, pitiful. Spits.

“Lords.”

Benny pulls the door closed behind himself.

“Glad to see your legs working so fine again.”

Dean groans, “Shut the fuck up,” but gladly takes the back rubs.

He heaves again.

Benny tuts, “There, there,” and Dean is gonna punch him once he’s done vomiting.

Eventually, he feels pleasantly empty. Calm, now that the violence of his instincts has subsided. Alone in this tiny, quiet room. No movement but Benny’s and his own. The flickering light above their heads.

The adrenaline makes him skittish, still. His heart jackrabbits, stupid. They’re waiting out there. Get a fucking grip, man.

Dean fishes for the handle and flushes his embarrassment away.

“Is it weird that I think you’re still beautiful like that?”

Dean agrees, “Pretty fucking weird,” and Benny’s mouth is waiting for him over his own shoulder.

They kiss.

Dean exclaims, “Gross,” and Benny cups both his hands around his face to do it all over again.

The world gets lost for a blissed moment. Just Benny and Benny’s mouth and Benny’s warmth, the cool tiles around them; the clean, innocent scent of UK2KE wafting up from the toilet.

… Yeah, gross.

“Dude,” mumbles Dean, without even trying to pretend to stop Benny from undoing his belt for him, unzipping his pants for him. “We’re supposed to—Benny, man…”

“We’re just gonna talk about _you_ , anyway. Fill you in. Not like we’re deciding on going to war or nothin’.”

“‘Fill me in’, huh?” Dean slurs to a grin, and Benny reciprocates that as he yanks at fabric until he’s got Dean bare-assed on the tiles.

“That a general question or for me?”

“I’m a mess,” points out Dean; leans back so Benny’s got easier access. Can rub spit-wet fingers down his taint and make him flinch, dig his shoulder blade into the toilet in his back. “Fuck. This is so fucking gross.”

“You keep talking like that and you won’t have to move a single finger to get me there, darlin’.”

Dean laughs, hollow; stops himself midway as he remembers there’s people just outside this door, as the pressure and sting of getting fingered open too fast too soon after too long sends his senses reeling.

“Mm.”

“Let me.”

“Benny—”

Dean drowns, blanketed now and warm, still dealing with the whiplash of his panic, the unexpected pain-pleasure. Benny’s rocking his knuckles up against his tailbone and Dean cannot breathe right.

“Buh—fuck, we should…”

Benny kisses him. Dean clings.

“He said five,” reminds Benny, raised brows over bedroom eyes. “Give me all but two, brother.”

Dean tips his head back, delirious; knocks against the toilet bowl and groans—mainly for the rough grind-and-tug to his insides. He raises his hips, and gods, yeah, that’s…

“Fuck.”

Benny groans in agreement, with strain. “Damn straight.”

Dean decides, “Fucking good to be back,” half-muffled against Benny’s mouth.


	4. NIRVANA

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alas, the last part of this. Thank you for your stay. We'll see each other in the next episode of this verse.   
> (This one's definitely the most painful of them all, so have a breather, why don't you.)

Sam announces, “I have a bad feeling about this,” with enough weight in his words you’d wonder if you’ll be held responsible if you’d even _think_ to roll your eyes.

Dean takes his chances.

“You’re not ready yet. Take some more time. Don’t roll your fucking eyes at me, Dean; you KNOW I’m right.”

“Just because something sounds smart doesn’t mean it’s right.”

Sam snaps, “You _jump_ whenever someone _sneezes_ ,” and Dean scoffs, offended.

Waves him off and takes another sip of his drink and barks, “Hey!” when Sam snatches that away from him.

“This isn’t just about you,” stresses Sam, tall and towering and Dean swallows dry with anger licking at his throat. Sam’s neither screaming nor going for anyone’s eyes but is calm instead (nearly _collected_!) and Dean is upset to find that even more horrifying than what he already knew. “You’ll take them down with you, can’t you understand? Right now, you’re not a fighter—you’re _a liability_.”

Dean shoots to a stand and beelines for his room.

Hears Sam hollering, “You KNOW I’m right!” and he’s probably glad, the bastard, that Dean’s leaving. That Cas and him have the house to themselves again.

He spends the night at Benny’s, because Benny doesn’t ask questions.

~

Of course Sam’s right. Of course he is.

Nobody knows more than Dean just _how_ painfully fucking right.

No active missions, of course. That’d be mass suicide. He knows. Cas knows. Everybody knows.

The past has him in its clutch, replaced limbs and muscle mass or not.

He’s getting better around groups, doesn’t feel like he’s gonna drown anymore. Not as much. Not as often. It’ll get better. It has to.

Benny went from third officer to Dean’s personal watchdog, and Dean hates it.

Hates that he’s the reason this gifted man puts his duties aside just to keep an eye out for him.

Liability.

Benny doesn’t kiss him or any of that shit around the others. Keeps it cool, and they didn’t talk about it, not a peep, but that’s just how Benny is—discreet, polite. Distanced even though he’s so close to everyone. In bed, too, sometimes. Even with Dean. After everything.

Far-away, sometimes. Stuck in the past, like they all are. Dean’s had glimpses, yes, but Benny’s frugal with details, even when drunk.

A rough timeline made of cult life, transition, Andrea. Benny’s got thick layers of scars, unaddressed, unspecified. Dean’s allowed to touch. Dean’s allowed to see.

Charlie’s tip-toeing differently than the others. Like she’s to blame; that ugly twist of guilt whenever their eyes meet, and Dean can’t take to see her cry, so he’s not had the balls yet to talk to her about it.

Dean’s _functioning_ , and he’s proud to say that it even goes as far as that.

He joins Cas, out in the backyard of the new base. Cas coos at him, pipe between his lips, and pets at Dean’s thigh once he’s within reach. They sit close, eyes tilted upwards, towards the night sky.

The air is worryingly thick on this planet. Lies atop your tongue like a weight.

“How was the family reunion?”

Cas groans, tired. He blows smoke from the corner of his mouth, away from Dean. “Sam insisted on planting flowers.”

Dean scoffs.

“I felt bad. I feel bad _for feeling bad_ about someone doing something _so kind_!”

“It’s his thing. You know that.”

“They are _my_ family. _I_ should have been the one to think of it.”

Dean watches him frowning to himself. Feels him rubbing up the inside of Dean’s leg, mindlessly, casually.

Eyes to Dean; foggy, searching. “I am a horrible man, Dean.”

Dean laughs.

“No, really. I am despicable.”

Dean tells him, “You’ve had enough,” and snatches the pipe from that too-loose grip, and Cas pouts, enraged, but doesn’t protest.

Ultimately deflates and sighs. “You’re probably right.”

“Am, sir.”

Cas takes his hand off Dean to rub both heels of his palms into his eye sockets. He groans in tired pleasure-pain. Dean watches him with the delight of a pet owner.

Grumbled, “What time is it?”

“Eleven thirty.”

Castiel groans again.

Dean smiles. Pats him on the back. “You wanna hit the sack yet? Your child bride’s probably getting antsy by now.”

Dean’s captain mumbles something into his hands, but does allow Dean to help him up, tug him along.

“Just this one briefing. Just another twenty minutes.”

“Sure thing, cap’n.”

Dean feels a hand settling over his chest. He looks down at it, up at Cas.

“You are a good man. Such a good, good man, Dean Winchester.”

Dean narrows his eyes at him. He raises the pipe to eye level and clicks his tongue.

“Imma safekeep this for you.”

Cas gives the item a longing, loving look before he nods, pained.

“Good boy.”

Dean empties the pipe into the dirt and stows it in his pocket. They head back in, side to side, with Dean’s arm secure around Cas’ shoulders.

The night remains outside, by itself.

~

“Ugh. You’re hot.”

Benny just hums, “Uh-huh,” but doesn’t withdraw. Unimpressed by Dean’s weak elbow and general stirring, and Dean swears he feels him grinning into the back of his shoulder when he gives up, settles in.

So fucking used to Benny’s shape and taste and company that, for a while, Sam hadn’t come to his mind. A long while. But tonight’s different, and Dean can’t find peace.

Stirs the merry-go-round along and along, thought after thought after thought. What-ifs and maybe-ifs. Choices. Possibilities.

Benny mumbles, “Go to sleep, _cher_ ,” and Dean pets at the hand rubbing his shoulder, his arm. Stares out the window, though, too awake to do anything but this.

He arrives home, the next day, to the sight of Cas rummaging through the kitchen. A queer sight.

Even queerer: the width of his smile when he turns around.

“I am about to head out and see my little girl!”

Cas lists all the logic and proper points about how and why not to worry about him; he’s traveling safe under the radar, hijacked ship, et cetera et cetera. Dean’s mind strains hard to find something, anything to make him stay, but comes up empty.

Been so fucking long, hasn’t it? Not since Dean and him met, at least. Maybe longer. Dean can’t fathom the agony of this kind of separation.

“Sam knows?”

“We said our goodbyes this morning.”

“Ah.”

“He tried very hard not to look disappointed. It was rather delightful.”

Dean chuckles. Cas smirks, all smug.

“You two. Lords. I do not deserve you.”

“You’re being stupid, old man.”

“Well, after all, I _am_ a fool, so this should be expected of me.”

Cas gathers his now remotely full duffle bag from atop the table, slings it over his shoulder.

A hand to Dean’s shoulder, cupping it.

“I will compensate you for the food.”

“Don’t sweat it.”

“I will invite you for drinks once I am back.”

“Now that’s just you once more being irresponsible with the little money you don’t have.”

They pull into a one-armed hug. Cas always prolongs these. Dramatic child.

Dean makes him promise, “Be safe out there, all right?” and feels his friend nodding into his neck.

They pull apart; Cas’ hand in the back of Dean’s neck now, and Dean’s in Cas’.

Forehead to forehead, Cas quietly tells him, “I will make sure to be back before you grow comfortable with my absence, Dean Winchester,” and he can’t help but smile around those last syllables.

Dean watches his captain board the inconspicuous ship he half-heartedly had hidden away under a bunch of crap out in the yard. Didn’t look like it’d be able to fly. Even as it stutters vertical, Dean’s yet to be entirely convinced.

He should have given it a once-over, just to be sure. Cas is someone who drives a vehicle despite all odds and only ever stops if something starts smoking—profusely.

(“It is obviously just running hot, it will get some rest once we’re there. Oh, now, what is that flashing light supposed to mean…?”)

But it does take off, and it does make the jump.

It’ll be all right. Cas’ll be all right—hell, he’s made it three whole decades without a Winchester backing him up. He can handle a little weekend trip.

Dean sighs and opens himself a beer.

As expected, without the prospect of the good ol’ in and out, Sam’s not too eager to come back home. Takes Dean nearly two days before he gets a glimpse of his brother. Sam looks tired.

“Busy, witch?”

Sam hauls his backpack onto the kitchen table. Dean is just fast enough to rescue his beer.

“Hey; careful there.”

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

Dean makes a face. “Dude, I _live_ here.”

Sam gives him a look before he begins to unpack. Stores containers and bottles in the already-packed fridge and Dean observes, nervous. But nothing breaks. That’ll be his turn, probably, the next time he’ll have to open the damn thing.

“Is any of that edible?”

“Probably not.”

“You need your own fridge. For—” Dean drinks, gestures derogatively “—for all your magick crap. What if it spills onto our food? I don’t wanna wake up a—I dunno, a troc or sum’.”

Sam considers him; fridge closed, one hand in his hip. “All _you’re_ gonna wake up to is baldness and a beer belly.”

Dean cocks his head at him, tongue in his cheek.

Sam simply looks at him like he’s stepped into something slimy.

“You gonna be like that until he’s back?”

Sam shoots, “Maybe,” and gathers an armful of fruit from the counter. To take to his room, probably, eat in solitude just so he doesn’t have to be with Dean.

They have been drifting apart, ever since Cas. Not Cas’ fault, just… No matter who it would have been, this would have been the outcome, right?

“Sammy, c’mon.”

Sam glares.

Dean beckons, pats the seat to his right. “C’mon, at least pretend you don’t hate me.”

It’s both a shock and a _I knew it_ when Sam actually takes him up on the offer and kicks a chair back so he can sit down on it. The fruits spill over the table; one zuuwqa races straight to the edge but decides otherwise at the last moment and, to its utter surprise, rolls back to the others.

Dean looks at Sam, and Sam looks at Dean.

Dean’s little brother takes a huge bite out of one piece of fruit, elbows on the counter, smugness in his open-mouthed chewing face.

“Did you do that? Just now?”

Another bite. “What?”

“The fruit?”

Sam slows his chewing and blinks his eyes, once, tired.

Dean wouldn’t look away from that face if it wasn’t for the zuuwqa, now in the air on eye-level. Spinning.

Sam takes another, juicy bite.

“I can set it on fire if you want.”

~

Sam’s room is just like he remembers, and yet not. Still overstuffed, still chaotic. But there’s a different feel to it all. Cabinets Dean didn’t know existed, never saw being dragged into the house. Full of secrets. Unattainable.

He gets his hand swatted at.

“I said: don’t touch.”

Dean scowls but submits. Stands close so he can look over Sam’s shoulder. Mixed herbs, colorful dried petals. Minerals and powders; a horrible mess. Sam navigates through it, pinches of this and that and seemingly randomly sized spoons. One looks a lot like it’s made of bone and Dean takes note and doesn’t inquire.

Sam’s sanctuary. Dad hasn’t been allowed in here since the move wrapped up. Dean can count on one hand how often he’s seen this room from this side of the door since his, how he calls it, eight days of vacation.

Cas is a regular, of course. Dean can picture him, tuckered out on the bed or the little available floor space. Under the table, head resting in Sam’s lap as he snoozes, because they’re disgusting like that. Probably. Dean’s got a good imagination.

“You’re like a walking signpost at this point,” jokes Dean and strokes his thumb along the bare patch of skin above the collar of Sam’s shirt—ink, here, as it is nearly everywhere. (This, too, a part of his imagination.)

Sam hisses, “Dude,” and rubs the touch away with his flat hand. “Don’t, I gotta focus.”

“Your entire back like that?”

“You’ve seen my back.”

“There’s new ones, here.” Tip of finger; a tiny plant curls across Sam’s trapezius, not bigger than Dean’s thumb. “You got any more?”

“Your lack of subtlety is showing.”

Dean smirks. “My what now?”

“Let me finish this up first. Sit on the bed if you want. Just—shove stuff aside, nothing important there, I think.”

Dean does as he’s told. Blankets upon blankets and Dean pointedly ignores the smell, the crusted stains. Clears his throat, makes himself comfortable. Sam’s bed is fucking huge. You wouldn’t think it was, piled with shit as it usually is.

Fucking hard-ass mattress. Lunatics.

Sam being done announces itself with him scooting his chair back. It scratches over the dirty floor and Dean’s head whips around for the sudden, loud noise (shut up) and he’s got his hands folded on his chest. As Sam stands up, he fits his pipe into his mouth, already curling with smoke, and he strips out of his shirt without ceremony.

The pants follow suit, and Dean tries hard not to blink.

Sam makes his way over to him, gracefully avoids every sharp or shattered object to his bare feet. His arms stretch out wide in presentation, in sheer glory, as he walks.

Around the mouthpiece, “Happy?” and Dean, the fool, he had forgotten.

Had not dared to entertain the thoughts and the games and is reminded of that _why_ , now.

“’S mostly sigils and nature stuff. Like, important herbs and spells.” Sam twists and turns, looks down on himself like he’s searching for something. Points to a random spot and says, “Thyme,” another, “Wsshathket.”

Dean thinks he says, “You’re a book,” and feels dried out.

Sam scoffs at him, belittling. Stands there, now, within reach, smoking and bare but for his plethora of jewelry, like a dare. Like a death wish.

Dean, for the sake of saying something, anything, croaks, half-clears his throat: “That, uhm. That part of the curriculum, or?”

“Not necessarily, no.” A cruel smile. Sam blows his smoke sideways, away; a familiar, Cas-related thing, so casually adapted. “It’s just fun. I’ll do one on you, if you wanna. I’m pretty good.”

“Can you do a T7 engine?” and Sam laughs. Dean’s mouth splits for his reciprocate smirk. “Right above my ass, what do you think?”

“I think your ass might fit a life-sized depiction.”

“Hey, now.”

“I thought we were shit-talking?” muses Sam, who crawls into bed; into the space Dean left, subconsciously, dumbly. Sucks on his pipe, up on both elbows and stomach-down. His naked, skinny ass catches the light from the desk in the corner of the room just fine. “Goes both ways, y’know.”

Dean fights not to lose his smile, because all other options include him with his mouth hanging open. “I think I’ll sleep on that creative spark of mine.”

“A wise decision.”

“Happens to me, sometimes.”

“ _Some_ times.”

Dean hums to himself, to the world. Their very own microcosmos; elbows almost touching, so close he might not be solely imagining the warmth radiating from that body.

He just looks at Sam. There are no words.

And for a beat (or ten), Sam looks back at him just the same. Fond and gentle. Like there’s a place for Dean, somewhere inside of him.

Dean swears he can see him remembering.

Makes it even more puzzling when Sam holds his pipe out for him, asks him, “You want some?” like that’s maybe the explanation for Dean staring at him. The lamest excuse.

The corner of Dean’s mouth quirks. Quiet, “Last time didn’t go so well, did it?” and Sam’s jaw ticks, trapped.

Eventually, just as flat, “Not exactly. No.”

The pipe goes back to where it belongs: Sam’s mouth. Sam’s lips and lungs.

Dean looks up at the ceiling. Drawings, here, too. He blinks, tired now, all of a sudden.

After a while of silence and smoking, it’s Sam who speaks again:

“You knew about his kid? Claire?”

“Yeah.” Pan of eyes. “You?”

Sam mumbles, “’Course I knew,” like Dean offended him or something. Sucks on his pipe (slower, now, like molasses).

“He ever told you ’bout how he almost ended up as a Tzaahnge’h consort?”

“Dude, I know he can take two fists up his ass, don’t test me.”

“I— _two_?”

“I know it surprises you, but we do indeed _talk_.”

“Did—the fist thing—you, or…?”

“Oh, lords, no. RE-Q-2C5 and, like, shiploads of drugs. He was, like, my age? _That_ phase.”

“Lords.”

“Yeah.”

“How did he…not… _die_ _yet_?”

“No fucking clue, man.”

Dean frowns. Has to ask, “Human, or?” and Sam’s brows nearly kiss his hairline, eyes wide as he shakes his head in screaming silence.

Dean’s mouth closes into a tight, reversed smile.

“Ho-kay.”

“He ever kissed you?”

Dean blinks, turns to look back at his brother.

Who tries to be casual, obviously, but his eyes say it all. “Like, on the mouth? Serious?”

“No, Sam.”

“Honest?”

“Swear-to-the-gods honest. You know I wouldn’t,” Dean adds, like that’s worth anything.

Sam’s thumbing at his pipe. Murmurs, “Dunno, I thought maybe before him and I. But okay.” Timid, “I trust you,” and that’s worth _every_ thing.

Dean’s thumb finds Sam’s arm. An almost-pinch, just so it won’t get mistaken as something loving.

Dean tells him, “He loves you so much,” and the words weigh too heavy, and as they leave him, he feels robbed.

Sam snaps, “I _know_ that, dumbass,” and that helps. Brings him back, and he squeezes Sam’s arm once and fully, whole palm, before he withdraws for good.

Sam’s done with his pipe but hasn’t felt the necessary urge to get up and prep a new one. Dean can relate.

Mumbled, “He loves you, too, y’know,” and Dean turns to say something, but what is there to say?

Sam meets his eyes, small and young. Younger in these places than he’d like to be, just like Dean. Where they got stuck, together, a long time ago.

“Thanks for telling him off, by the way.”

Dean’s mouth twitches to a tiny smile. “You’re welcome.”

“He used to pester me a lot about it. Like ‘wouldn’t it be so fucking hot’ and ‘don’t you want it too’ and all that blah blah blah, like…ugh.” Sam scratches his fingers across the top of his head. Almost-hides in his pillow. “I said, no, dude, he’s not into this kind of shit, so just—fucking _drop_ _it_ already.”

Eyes for Dean, who’s outside of himself right now.

Who registers Sam looking at him, un-searching, because he’s already found his answers. A long time ago, probably.

“Like, I don’t mind him using his hands to look at you, y’know. Like, I get it. Just don’t let him get the wrong idea, okay?”

“Sure thing.”

“Huh?”

“Sure thing,” louder this time.

“You think he’s with her, right now? Amelia?”

Dean forces himself to focus. Frowns, confused by the sudden change in topic. Murmurs, “What, like, fucking her?”

Sam nods, fearfully.

“Maybe? I don’t know.”

Sam admits, “I told him it’s okay,” and looks fucking _brimmed_ with regret.

“Sounds like a you-problem…”

“What if they make another one?”

“A baby?”

“ _Yeah_?”

“Then they make another baby, Sam; I dunno what to tell you.”

Sam groans and collapses into his pillow face-first for good, now.

Dean is numb. His hands and feet are heavy where they are attached to his body.

Sam roars, “I’m the biggest idiot in the entire fucking galaxy,” and he might not be far off with that.

~

So, Cas didn’t propose yet.

If there’s an antonym for surprise, that’s Dean Winchester’s feelings about that one.

Makes you wonder if he ever meant it in the first place. Just another tool to reel in sympathy? To wax poetic, throw around big words? If he wanted marriage, why not with the person he picked to bear his child for him? Or was Claire just another mood swing, one of Cas’ trial-and-error lifestyles?

How cowardly it is to put these things together while Cas is absent. While Dean has room and distance to take a step back, look at the man he’s trusting with his life, with his brother; his house, every earthly belonging. His everything.

When you stick together with someone for this long, this close, how are you supposed to see anything else, let alone _them_?

Sam and him, they’re different now. With the ghost of Cas hovering over everything, in the small spaces they’d begun to carve out prior to him. Easier for Sam to see Dean as the failure he is despite everything Dean tried (had to); easier for Dean to see that he did the right thing by rejecting Sam, back then. That chasing that futile hunger would have destroyed them.

Sam’s no longer a child; not Dean’s, nor anyone’s. Is his own person, and maybe that’s what drove them apart. Weaseled between them early on, innocently, naturally. Poison and daggers.

Dean groans wet, clings to hair, to skin.

Eyes shut tight and he gets a hand around Benny’s wrist, face hidden-pressed into a clavicle, and Benny inhales sharp upon being placed, and guided.

The arm around Dean’s back tightens impossibly.

The sensation is jarring.

Everything between yes and no. A tornado of stillness and violence and oh god please, and Dean holds on for dear life.

Benny works him slow. Stays slow once Dean’s hand leaves him be, idles fingertips-to-wrist, unsure.

It works out until it doesn’t.

Benny’s got him. Both arms around Dean, now, and he drowns, spins. Would claw and shred but he’s small, he’s helpless. His entire body curls—inwards.

Nothing he wants but darkness, and darkness is what welcomes him.

He’s unaware of Benny’s lingering presence. Can’t feel anything but fire and his own blood, every pore of his skin. Hears that he’s supposed to breathe, and he tries, but it’s hard. His lungs feel crushed, incapable.

Head tilted back by force and he’s aware of the cramps all over; teeth, and those hurt as well, jaw clenched so tight he can’t speak, can’t swallow, nothing.

He apologizes, later.

Says, “It’s my fault,” and Benny shushes him, gently, with a thumb edged all casual into the corner of his mouth.

“Nothin’ to apologize for.”

Paper mouth. Limbs filled with air. “Did I scare you?”

Benny smiles at him. “Just a little.”

“You mad at me?”

“Now, why would I do _that_?”

Dean’s laughter bubbles from his mouth like water.

Benny knows to kiss him without another word.

~

“He said he’ll be back within two weeks, right?”

“Yeah,” agrees Dean. Uselessly, since they all were present at the briefing. But he plays along for Charlie.

Who bundles another round of ammo, eyes downcast. “He’s such a goddamn idiot.”

“I mean, he hasn’t seen his kid in forever, man. What’s he supposed to do?”

“Oh, I dunno, _Dean_ ,” she snaps, “maybe be sensible and NOT put them in danger?”

“You know he wouldn’t be stupid about it. He knows what’s on the table. He wouldn’t go if he wasn’t sure it’s a hundred percent safe.”

“It’s _never_ safe.” Charlie hisses, thinly, “Were _you_ safe when they snatched _you_ up?”

They glare at each other for a moment.

Dean informs, calmly, “I trust him,” and that’s that.

They keep working for a while. The silence isn’t uncomfortable, not for Dean. He’s busy being upset how efficient his new hands are—at everything. Sorting, cleaning, categorizing. Metal and metal in perfect harmony.

“It just makes me so mad,” he hears eventually.

He peers over at his friend, who’s slowed down her efforts. Who frowns. Her metal eye is unmoving.

Quiet, lost, “You’d think he’s lost enough to know better.”

“I doubt neither you nor I know enough about our cap’n’s loss, engineer.”

“And I doubt you’ve had enough loss in your life, officer, to contribute much more than bullshit platitudes.”

And with that, Charlie gathers her work and leaves Dean by himself.

Her and Benny and the Banes twins moved together with the base. The others fly back and forth. They implemented more beaming devices. Hard to say if it’s better or worse to scatter the crew like that. Hard to find balance between sticking together and keeping a smart distance.

Dean would move as well, if they asked him to. If it was necessary. He could take it—maybe move in with Charlie or Benny or the Harvelles. Maybe be on his own, _if it was necessary_. But Sam wouldn’t let Cas go, so there’s no sense in abandoning the house. Dean sleeps better hearing Cas being alive through two doors at the most.

Restless days. Dean works out, sees Benny whenever it gets too much, when all he needs is to let go for an hour, two. And while Benny does ask him to stay the night—isn’t it late, aren’t you tired—he doesn’t make a scene of Dean declining. It scares Dean that he’s understood so well. That it’s so obvious to Benny, apparently, what will happen if he attempts to push too far. Pathetic of Dean to gorge himself on his friend’s hospitality like that. But what can you do? It works out. Seems to work out, for them.

Like it used to be with Sam and him, in reverse. That threshold of ‘too much’ invisible but tangible. Unspoken, undisclosed, but reality.

Dean’s always wondered how this side of the deal might feel like. Turns out it’s not much better than what he already knows.

~

Sam warns, “Shut up,” and while Dean does drop his mouth open to say something, he doesn’t. Not upon his brother’s weight and warmth settling in behind him, under the covers.

One arm across Dean, like he’s owned.

Again, “Shut it,” and there’s Sam’s stupid forehead into the back of Dean’s neck, the endless line of his torso too-firm and the cradle of that lap matching up perfectly up against Dean’s ass, and.

Dean’s had worse nightmares than this.

Sam reeks of his herbs.

Cas was supposed to be back today.

Grumbled, “They’re definitely making another fucking baby,” and Dean soothes, “Bull,” and in the darkness, his palm finds the back of Sam’s hand.

Dean jokes, “Don’t cry,” but Sam is very quiet.

Thumb over rings. Over knuckles and skin.

Dean promises, “It’s gonna be all right,” as if he still had any say in how the world works.

~

Cas returns with bravado and a shockingly deep tan. Looks like someone trimmed his hair, his beard; someone who’s not Sam.

Cas smiles from ear to ear, and Dean tries to be discreet. Tries to not scream at him to _gods lord Cas watch it_ , but it wouldn’t make a difference.

Sam’s never been angry with Cas before, and Dean pities him.

“Sam!”

Full-on hug from Cas; one of Sam’s arms limp and patting back at him, like swatting a fly away.

Dean takes over, squeezes his captain hard. Tells him, “Good to have you back, man,” and Cas says, “You too,” and turns to kiss Sam.

Sam allows a peck but pulls away from anything more.

Confused, “Angel?” and Dean is still caught under that arm, right in the crossfire.

Tightens his grip on Cas’ shoulder as he tries to jolt after Sam, who simply turns and leaves through the front door, and Cas’ mouth gapes open, and he turns to Dean for an explanation. Like Dean had any authority. Like Dean possesses the power to make this right for him.

Dean apologizes, “Give him some time,” and Cas, while he’s still shaken, is swiftly rid of his surprise.

It’s a tense, quiet afternoon. Dean’s out of questions about as fast as Cas is out of stories.

Sam’s not back by nightfall. Dean drags himself out because he’s apparently the sensible one (while Cas is rightfully scared).

Dean finds his brother by his dumb meditation rocks. Crossed-legged, smoking, drowning in his self-pity. He doesn’t startle upon Dean’s arrival nor upon Dean squishing himself next to him.

“You’re being pretty inconsiderate.”

“You’d rather have me caving his goddamn skull in with my bare hands?”

“Come on, now, you can’t still be that mad.”

Sam takes another hit and glares at Dean with tiny, saltwater-sore eyes. “Wanna bet?”

“He’s been pacing around the house all day, waiting for you.”

“So?”

“Don’t be so fucking hard on him, man. Thought you’ve grown out of that crap by now.”

Sam scoffs and doesn’t comment.

They sit it out. The sky splits wide open over the canyons. Orange and green and that sour scent that pinches your nose, every time.

Dean sniffles, sighs.

“Tell you what. Imma leave so you two can, y’know—make up.”

Dean gestures with his fingers.

Sam shoulders into him, hard. Dean laughs.

“Fuck you.”

Not much more incentive is needed—Dean gets up, Sam follows suit. Pointedly slow, sure, and Sam does deserve the attention and drama, he does. Deserves Cas begging for forgiveness, and Dean has the unsettling feeling that that’s gonna be part of whatever nastiness they’re gonna unleash as soon as he’s beamed his ass outta there. At least Benny’s gonna be fucking delighted to have him over for a couple of days in a row.

Dean prompts, “Be nice,” and addresses both idiots with that. Gives Cas a warning look and Cas’ mouth perks into the shadow of a grateful smile for him for a second, before he’s focused on Sam, and Dean doesn’t allow himself to look back or listen in or anything. Not his place, and he’s definitely not in the mood for any sickly-sweet love-quarrel bullshit.

He’s just here to mend things. Be the bumper they need, if they need one. He’s made his peace with that. At least some way he can still be a part of them.

Benny’s face lights up, unfailingly. “He back?”

Dean sighs, “Yup,” and hefts his bag past the heavily bolted door. Drags it into the bedroom while Benny sets all locks back into place. He hollers, “You eat yet?” and strips out of his shirt, his tee. Tosses them into a corner, grabs fresh substitutes.

“Nah. You?”

“I could eat.”

From behind, Benny’s hands settle around his waist. A kiss to the side of his neck, and Dean turns to make his mouth available for the next.

“Anything particular you have in mind?”

“Carbs?” Another kiss. “I’m starvin’.”

Benny hums, “Comin’ right up,” and lets Dean cup his face in both of his hands, kiss him with his eyes closed.

~

Dean grabs an extra handful of provisions for Cas. Just a mood, just a feeling that Cas will be grateful for it, will thank him and tell him, “Ah, you always look out for me,” and smile and brush his hand along Dean’s entire arm. The little things. Always those little, unimportant things.

It’s a normal day. The most normal of days. Unremarkable. And Dean will remember, just like everyone else will remember in their own ways. The departure. The last time of this or that. Should have said X, but why say it now if there’s still a tomorrow, a next time? Dean remembers that luxury of not knowing, of living without that weight; unfortunately.

He remembers Sam saying, “I love you,” and Cas replying, “I love you too,” and they always did this, and they always meant it. Right from the start, they had been serious about this ritual of theirs; rightfully so. No illusions. And yet, of course, Sam Winchester will regret, and he will doubt himself. Still a Winchester, after all. Still human.

There’s a universe, maybe, where it didn’t happen. Where—and Dean’s brain is happy to supply a million ways it could have been prevented—things went differently. Where they didn’t leave for the mission in the first place. Where someone else took Cas’ place. Dean? Rufus? Ellen? Garth? Dean?

Maybe, if it had been Dean, that would have been for the better. Wouldn’t have blown this hole they find themselves in, this crater, now, forever.

And Dean remembers that it was just as it usually was—chaotic, of course, battle and take cover and one of the bastards almost had gotten him in the foot and Dean’s heart was racing already and adrenaline and focus on full force, and Ellen looked over at him from where she was cowering. Someone was screaming; none of them, though. Civilian.

And Cas, stupid Cas, “Let’s move,” so they did that, of course they did. Dean right behind him and gods what a mess they had found themselves in, gore and corpses lining the street and just the five of them, just the core of them to take out _their_ core, just get a shot in, anything.

If they had been more, would that have changed things? Would that have been enough?

Would one of the others have held Cas back, would have had the balls to snag him by his belt or his shirt? Someone not-Dean, not-Ellen, Ellen who Dean remembers at least screamed something along the lines of (no, _exactly_ ), “No, WAIT,” but Dean had seen them too, the small family or group of people, whatever they were there were children among them and of course, and yes, Dean would have done the same, he would have, he would have. It could have been him. Should have been him.

The first shot barrels right through Cas’ chest and exits his back so fast Dean can’t blink, can’t scream, nothing.

It’s all slow motion from that point on.

The second bullet. The third.

Cas, not dead by then because they didn’t get him in the head and it was so so fast—because your heart tries to keep beating at first, of course, and why wouldn’t it? It doesn’t know yet—and it seemed like he was moving but of course that was just the impact tossing him around, his foot slipping, stumbling, and still, Dean couldn’t scream.

Dean remembers the heavy thud of their captain hitting the ground, and through all the screams and terror and gunshots around them, he thinks he remembers hearing—Cas, trying to breathe with a torn-apart lung. Must have been quiet, so so quiet and pained so maybe Dean only imagines it, maybe his brain supplied and fantasized and maybe the ground was shaking and it wasn’t: Cas, struggling through the last beats of his life, before that rain of bullets.

Someone screamed, then, close by; maybe Rufus, cursing, and Dean can’t remember how they got out of there. How they survived. How any of them made it.

The worst: it wasn’t even hard or anything. Amateurs. No hostages. Just some idiots playing God.

And yet, this was it.

They swore to him that no, Dean, you only got the bad guys, hundred percent. You wouldn’t have. It’s easy to believe.

He remembers just—standing there, after. Above the mess the bullets left behind. The shreds of skin and tissue and fabric. Even Cas’ boots.

A child, crying, in the near distance.

Dean remembers not feeling anything.

A hand, maybe, slapping into his padded shoulder, shaking him, but he can’t look away.

“C’mon, we gotta leave—fuck, Dean, come ON,” and they gathered what they could. Too sick to throw up the humble breakfast they had shared before, earlier, in the ship, with Cas making up a story of how his kid slayed a dragon when he was over for a visit, so small but she’s vicious, guys, and Dean almost stumbled several times, his boots slipping in all the blood and intestines but they had to, they had to take him home.

Who would believe them, otherwise?

A funeral, at the very least. _Some_ thing. Anything.

They cry in the ship. Huddled together and Dean keeps talking to Garth over the intercom, tells him good job, buddy, take us home, easy does it, talks him through the asteroid field and the air is filled with disgust, with salt and blood and dirt and he can’t, lords, this isn’t real. It’s not. It’s not.

The crew, welcoming them, cheering—until they realize something’s wrong, until horror settles in and panic ensues. Dean will never forget their faces. He is covered in blood from carrying their captain’s remains and maybe they are worried about _him_ , first, maybe Sam’s eyes go wide for _him_ , and someone tugs at him and he says, “I’m all right,” numb, and finally, finally someone dares to ask, “Where’s Cas?” and he, he can’t.

Just a matter of moments, all of this. The momentum, the importance, and Dean feels the world falling apart, second by second.

He can’t let his brother out of sight. And Sam stares back at him for the longest time, he does, but his attention can’t _not_ pan to where everyone else is drawn to, to the assault to every human sense and someone screams, terrified, understanding, and Dean can never lose the picture of Sam, realizing.

How he freezes, just like Dean had. Just stands there, staring. Paralyzed.

He doesn’t run. And where would he have ran? There’s nowhere.

People collapse like flies. Drop to their knees, sobbing, turning away, holding each other. Dean is still seated inside the ship and Sam still stands several feet away, and neither of them has moved. Unthinkable how that might ever change again.

Sam’s eyes swim back to Dean’s. And his mouth almost-opens—quivers, indecisive, and, yeah, what is there to say? What in the world is there, at all?

Dean rises, finally. Makes his way to his brother who recoils, who tells him, “No,” a first word, a forever-word, but Dean gets a hand on his shoulder to make him stay, pull him in. Grabs his arm to make him hold out his hand and folds what he could find of Cas’ necklaces he’s held clutched in his fist throughout the entire flight into Sam’s palm, squeezes, hard, as hard as he can, and Sam sobs louder now, sobs, “No!” and Dean aches and forces his other arm around him, presses him to his chest and buries his face in Sam’s neck and it takes all of his power, all of himself to keep Sam here, to keep him clutched and in his arms and he won’t let go despite Sam fighting him like a beast.

Sam wails again, guttural and final and Dean holds him upright, keeps him from falling to his knees and just holds him. Holds onto him.

For longer than he’d like to admit, Dean can’t talk. Doesn’t want to try, maybe, so it’s his own fault. But people don’t address him, at first, so they make it easy on him to be this childish. This weak.

The others stand in for him. Explain what happened, shaking, and the cruel side of Dean wonders how they ever did anything, how they accomplished anything if one simple death can destroy them this easily. How did they make it this far?

“We have to do something. He can’t stay like this.”

“What, bury him? Burn him?”

“He wanted a shuttle burial. Always said that.”

“Fuck. Lords.”

“We have to respect that. We have to respect what he wanted.”

“I can’t believe it.”

“The longer we wait, the harder it will…”

“I know, I know… Just… Lords. Lords above.”

Sam and Dean do most of the shoveling from inside the ship into the casket shuttle Bobby had produced out of lords-know-where. Nobody attempts to stop them or insert themselves. Awkward, stunted silence, yes, but that’s okay. Just let them have this.

Dean’s first word is, “No,” but Sam opens his palm over the shuttle anyway.

The necklaces land with a wet, dull jingle.

“Sam, keep them. Keep at least one.”

“You keep one if you want,” is the only thing Sam shares.

Dean steels himself and manages to pick one back into his possession. He’ll give it to Sam one day, eventually. Once this may not have passed, but settled. Once Sam can accept it. Once Sam will be grateful that Dean did this for him, kept it for him. And that time will come, but it is in the far future, a future none of them is able to see as of right now.

The crew and Sam watch the shuttle ejecting itself into the endless embrace of space. Into the ice-cold black and empty. Shoulder to shoulder with the others, Dean’s eyes follow it forever. It will open, eventually, bloom like a flower, and reunite Cas with the universe. Just like he wanted.

Back on the ground, there is nothing. The crew leaves him be for now. He can’t even feel sorry for himself.

Couldn’t even say something. Mumbled a sentence or two but lords know what he even said. Nothing would do Cas justice. Everything is raw and open.

It’s been hours. Half a day, maybe a day.

“Dean.” Doc’s hand curls around his shoulder. “I brought you some water. Some food.”

“I’m not hungry.”

She tells him, “That doesn’t matter.”

He chews and swallows just to make her go away. It’s torture. His body doesn’t want anything. He throws everything back up soon enough.

Everyone idles around base. Nobody dares to leave, nobody trusts themselves. Dean has yet to clean himself. He might just not do it at this point. Soak it up. Keep it forever. Cas’ DNA—traces, memories. Dean squeezes the kept pendant in his palm as if it could talk to him. As if Cas somehow transferred part of himself into it. Its silence seems that much crueler.

Sam hasn’t gotten up from where he laid down in the storage room several hours ago. Dean joins him, curled up against the embryo shape of his little brother, and he holds him, closes his eyes. He thinks they sleep like this. He doesn’t know for how long.

~

Sam is changed. Every fiber of him.

Dean has lost more than his friend.

Dad folds another leaf of Grehm behind his ever-chewing teeth. Quiet, “What’re you gonna do?” and Dean dreaded the question. Knew it’d come, had to come, of course. Posed it to himself ever since that moment. It’s been days, plural, now, and he’s yet to come up with anything but absolutely nothing.

Has to admit, “I don’t know,” and Sam has yet to move. Sits in his chair like a corpse himself if it wasn’t for him breathing, his jaws churning.

Dad scratches through his beard. Wipes his hand across his face.

Dean is too much of a coward to go grab the bottle he knows is stowed away in his room. A gift from Cas, a stolen souvenir from their night out (Cas held onto his promise, of course). Can’t drink, period. Whatever he swallows feels like rocks. Every form of nurture is rejected. So maybe even if he hauled it out here, it wouldn’t do any good.

Dad says, fittingly, “Shit,” and Dean half-nods, and Sam doesn’t say or do anything.

Dean agrees, “Pretty much,” and that’s all he’s got.

Dad and him sit outside, later that night. Dad produced a brand-new bottle. They share it underneath the stars.

Finally, Dean inquires: “You think we’ll have to abandon this place?”

“The house?” Dean nods. “No. I think not.”

“They know I’m here.”

“Who?”

“Everyone. I dunno.”

Dad asks, “You think this place is no longer safe?” and Dean can’t reply.

He drinks. Shakes his head, unrelated to the question they both know the answer to anyway. “I don’t wanna leave.”

“We don’t have to.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Word will get around, but.” Dad shrugs, drinks. “They know it’s over. There’s nothing for them to gain.”

Empty, Dean nods. Yeah. Yeah, true: it’s over.

Unspoken truth. But without Cas, there is no Garrison One. Dean knows everyone feels the same, no matter the disappointment. Cas was what carried them. What gave them purpose. Without him holding the circus of them together, they’re just that: a bunch of hooligans, weapon fanatics, rebel scum. Outlaws.

Feds knock at the Winchesters’ door twelve hours later. A prosecution. Dean is led away without handcuffs. They don’t need those on something as trivial as a human (and John Winchester is something invisible, something they’re not aware could be hiding. A shadow, unreachable). Dean is not afraid.

The process is dealt with in under a day. Everyone is released, no parole, no nothing. Surreal, but then again, what did they even do? Kill a handful of convicted criminals. Dirty work. An odd look from the judges seals the end of the garrison for good.

“What do we do now?” and Dean looks back at Charlie, but Charlie’s not the only one looking back at him right now, and he tells everyone, flat-out, “No clue.”

Drinks. Always drinks.

It’s Charlie who keeps talking. The only one in a sea of hopelessness. Admits, bravely, desperately: “I have nowhere to go.”

Several of them insist, “Stay with me,” simultaneously, without hesitation. She makes a face, humbled, sad.

“You guys. I can’t.”

“Same here,” announces Benny. “Got some savings, but that’s all. Gotta get some work going soon, but—after that, I have no idea.” Dean knows they’re not the only ones. Hell, he and Bobby might be the only ones with a somewhat steady life (and what kinda fucking joke is _that_?).

Charlie tells him, “I could get you a job, no problem. Work’s not the issue, it’s more the, uhm. Circumstances.”

Pam nods, “Safety,” and Charlie nods along.

“I mean, it’s not my first time. Having to haul ass last minute, I mean.”

Jo inquires, “What do you usually do?” fearful and weak and Charlie looks at her and gets a hold of her shoulder, rubs at her all gentle.

“Jump systems,” admits Charlie. “Run and hide. I’m pretty awesome at it at this point, but. I don’t wanna leave you guys. Not yet, at least.”

“We’re so screwed,” scoffs Max, and Bobby raises his glass to that one.

“We’ll figure this out.” Ash nods, stubborn; one of the quietest of them all after what went down the last couple of days, and that’s new, and Dean eyes him carefully, worried. Their tech genius clings to his empty glass as if it held all the confidence and solutions he needs. “We’ll figure something out. We always do.”

~

Back home, it’s Dad who rises, who inquires, “What did they say?” and Sam just keeps sitting at the table, observing, while Dean shrugs and admits, “Nothing. We’re free. I guess.”

Dad counters, “Bullshit,” and begins to tug Dean’s shirt out of his pants. “They wire you? Did you check?”

Dean tells him, “Didn’t even close my fuckin’ eyes,” but undresses, lets Dad do his thing, dig through his pile of junk and detectors and whatnot. Tired, annoyed, he looks back to his brother, still at the table, picking at a piece of fruit. It’s missing a few bites, but Sam looks gray with dehydration. “Sammy, c’mon, go grab yourself some water.”

Coarse, “I’m not thirsty,” and Dean grits his teeth, has Dad pushing and twisting him as he scans him head to toe (and toe to head, and once more, and another for good measure).

“You know I’ll make you do it, so stop being a bitch. Sam, that—Sam.” But Sam’s already vanished, bangs the door to his room behind himself. “Dad, would you— _can_ you, for _one_ fucking second, please?!”

Dad grumbles, “Who’s the bitch now?” and slaps two capsules into Dean’s unwilling hand. “Swallow.”

Dean rolls his eyes, ingests them dry. “This is stupid.”

“No, _you_ are stupid.” Dismissive hand gesture. “You can put your pants back on.”

Dean drily thanks him and re-dresses into his set of dirty clothes. “You could’ve forced him to eat at least a little something while I was away, y’know.”

Dad snorts, solely focused on the flickering screen of one of his fuck-old devices. “Yeah, sure.”

“He’s skin and bones. You want him to digest himself?”

“He’s tough. He’ll get over it.”

Dean warns, “Dad,” and John gives him a pissed-off but guilty little side glance. For only a moment, but Dean knows that’s all he can expect, and he gives a final glare before he stomps off, deeper into the house.

He doesn’t bother to knock on the door. Which turns out to be the right choice, since it’s locked anyway.

Dean rattles on the doorknob. “Sam, open this door.” Nothing, so he adds, “There won’t _be_ a door if you don’t,” and there’s the unmistakable growl of, “Go away,” and he clicks his tongue, gives the door a final thud with his shoulder.

Dean announces, “Samuel Winchester, I will break down this fucking door, if you like it or not,” but he doesn’t, because his body gets flung into the opposite direction so hard he nearly bites off his tongue as his head bounces off the floor of his own room with the impact.

Louder, further away, “I said to GO AWAY,” and Dean mutters, “Sonofabitch,” gasps for air and composure as he hefts himself up, and Dad comes running and bellows, “What is going on here?” and Dean wipes at his mouth, wipes away blood that he finds out spews from the split in his lip his teeth ripped in there, and, fuck. Fuck, all of this sucks.

It’s his fault. All of this. He can’t do anything. Too dumb. Too weak. Not strong enough.

Sam won’t let either of them near him. Dean watches him climbing from his window at night, sitting outside himself, by the canyon, his ship. Tired, unable to sleep (avoiding it). Sam stalks off, barefoot, like every other night. He’ll be back. Dean will watch him climb back inside.

He gets it. That’s all he wants to say. Doesn’t matter if it’s true or not. Just let Sam know he’s not alone in this. That he’s there, that Dean’s right fucking here. But Sam doesn’t come to him.

Distances and glares and snarls. Wounded animal. At least he picks up eating again, eventually. Does look a little less like he’s dying, at least on the outside. Just good enough.

Cas’ absence looms over the house. Clings to the air, to every piece of furniture, every shift of a curtain, every time of the day.

Cas’ bag, Cas’ belongings. His clothes. Shed hairs, hiding in corners, inside pillowcases. He had taken his pipe with him and it’s gone now, forever. If Dean had the presence to search for it back on the battlefield, he didn’t find it. Pulverized or at least broken by the countless shots. In Cas’ pocket, always, back one on the left.

Dean can drink and sit. Good days let him drag himself to the market, score them some food. Bland, tasteless. He cooks the grains but everything above that threshold is a waste. Sam steals from the fridge when Dean’s not inside the house. Steals himself to his studies, incredibly irregularly, but he stays out longer, days at a time. Dean spends nights with his ears pressed to Sam’s door to check if he’s in there, if he’s breathing.

~

Benny and Dean sit in their bar, drinking, gazing into the rainy street outside. Soothing, this silence between them. The shared pain. So similar, the two of them—stubborn and too-soft. Careful in their own, stupid way.

“You decided yet?”

Benny says, “Hm?” his blue eyes now focusing for how Dean breaks the unspoken agreement of sitting and drinking.

“What you’re gonna do, I mean.” Dean shrugs, chin on his knuckles, his other hand strict on his glass. “Leave? Stay?”

“I’ll go wherever the crew goes, I guess.”

“So, 78-Z-T?”

“Possibly.”

“Huh. Great.”

Benny jokes, “We’ll be neighbors,” and Dean chuckles, superficial, and only because Benny’s dumb grin is so fucking infectious. “Don’t laugh. You’ll come over and borrow my goddamn coffee all the time.”

“I have my own coffee, shut up.”

“That was a metaphor.”

“Yeah: shut up.”

“It means you’ll make up dumb excuses to come see me and let you suck my dick.”

Again, flustered, laughed, “Shut _up_ ,” and he shoves at Benny’s shoulder, and Benny ebbs with his own laugh, heavy and tired.

Once the moment is gone, Benny sighs. Remarks, “Man. I missed that.” Sobered. Back in reality. Dean looks down into his glass.

“Yeah.”

Timid, “You think the garage thing’s gonna work out?”

“I honestly don’t know, man.”

“But it’s a start,” insists Benny, and Dean nods for him because he wants it to be true, too. “It’s something. And I’ll take whatever we can get.”

Dean doesn’t know why he lets himself get talked into going home with Benny. Doesn’t know why he kisses him back, why he doesn’t (rightfully) say, “This is not the time.” It’s not. It might never be.

Got Benny’s balls in his hand by the time he mans up and announces, “I can’t,” and Benny strokes through his hair, looks at him all bed-soft and nods.

Tells him, “Took you long enough, huh,” and Dean punches him in the tit for that, and they laugh together, and then they just hold each other, skin to skin. Calming, this way. More rain, outside, against the windows.

Dean murmurs, “It’s gonna be okay,” with Benny drifting off, with Benny’s hair between his ever-moving fingers and his eyes on the wall. Further, nowhere. “It’s gonna be okay.”


End file.
